The Hand, the Planets, and the Fickle Finger

Sometimes I love how the universefategod messes with me. Like when I made the final drive north determined to buy my new house where my mom and I will live together. The phone rang when C & I were almost there. It was my brother telling me that my mom didn't feel well. She couldn't/wouldn't get out of bed. Everything hurt, she said. Take nothing for granted, the voice inside my head said. Plan, but plans are not stone. Plans are made of sand.

My mom went to the hospital by ambulance that morning. She had pneumonia. She recovered. We're still planning on moving in together.

Yesterday, after signing the loan papers, I went to the bank to arrange the wire transfer for the down payment. Hooray! I'll take myself out for a glass of iced tea at my favorite little cafe, I thought. I'll sit on their patio and flip through the lovely pile of magazines on design and decorating that they have there. I was doing just that when my phone rang. The name on the screen was the name of the law firm that represented me in the divorce. Oh no, I thought. I just bought a house I won't be able to make the mortgage payments on because The Someone is dragging me back into court. Oh no, what can I do? Whom should I call? I couldn't take another sip of the tea and hopped up to rush home. As I raced down the sidewalk, I heard the phone signal that I had a voicemail. The law firm has four  boxes of documents that they want me to pick up, the message said. That's all.

But it's good to be reminded how how the tide can turn and wash everything away.

Today I counted my blessings over and over again.

How It Might Have Happened

We might have celebrated M.'s graduation together, Mr. Ex and I--flanking her as proud parents, smiling into someone's camera, shaking hands and accepting congratulations. We didn't.

And it was fabulous.

We had a party before the ceremony. A party I let unfold with its own casual style. It began with dirty dishes in the sink and the man who loves me washed them. It began where will we put this, and where will we set that, and do we have enough plates? People drove or flew for hours to join us, and then climbed up three flights of stairs. Old people, and pregnant people, and children. There was beautiful food and mimosas served from a dusty buffet, and everyone was happy to be there. Thirty-some people toasting and sighing with the relief and joy and sweet sadness of a milestone passed, and I just had to let it all spin out of my control into its own loveliness.

I thought of Mr. Ex a bit. What was he doing while the loveliness unfolded? Room service breakfast in front of the TV? Attending to his Blackberry? Talking to the Little Missus who did not come? I couldn't hold an image of him in my head. There didn't seem to be room there on the third floor looking onto the unfurling tree tops, passing happy faces in the hallway, jockeying with a cup of coffee from conversation to conversation.

And then at the ceremony, I thought surely Fate would have us stumbling into one another. A doorway. A hallway. In the photo zone with our cameras as our daughter snared her diploma. I saw a man I thought might be him--but it wasn't.

I expected sadness, I guess. I just couldn't feel it in the midst of all the joy.

Planning Your Big Indian Wedding--and ending up here.

I've had a lot of readers from India lately. Allow me to explain dear brides and/or grooms:
This blog has been in existence since shortly after Mr. Ex's Wedding in September of 2008. My husband  left me for a younger woman. They had an Indian wedding, and one night a couple of weeks later, I woke up in the middle of the night and started this blog. It's not about wedding planning--although I suppose if you were a clever detective, you could spend hours reading through old posts, looking for clues to Mr. Ex's identity, then find his wedding album on the internet. 


I did. 


Those photos devastated me--but for you they would be pure research. As I recall, the wedding was immensely elaborate. There was a horse, costume changes, colorful saris, and exquisite make-up. I wish you a wedding even more beautiful. 


One of my favorite movies has an Indian wedding in it--Mira Nair's "Monsoon Wedding." There's a bit of dialogue in "Monsoon Wedding" that says a lot about marriage. "Whether our parents introduce us or whether we meet in a club, what difference does it make?" As I recall it, the groom, who is quite conservative, speaks this line to his fiancée. She's not so hot on the idea of an arranged marriage, and he's trying to point out to her that how a couple meets is not what makes a marriage succeed.


A few months after my marriage ended, I ended up in a taxi cab with an Indian driver.  “My soon-to-be -ex-husband is marrying an Indian woman,” I told him. Although I thought I had endowed my voice with a reasonable tone, there was alarm in his eyes as he glanced at me in the rear view mirror. 

            “My people usually stay married to one person,” he said. "I’ve had one wife for thirty years.” His marriage was an arranged one, he went on to tell me. His parents chose his bride for him, and he and his betrothed met once as children and then didn’t see each other again until the day of their marriage.  “Most of  marriages I see breaking apart are marriage from love match,” he told me. His English was heavily accented and not very nuanced, but I had a question I wanted him to answer.

            “Do you believe in Fate?” I asked. 

            “What is this?” he asked, trying to repeat the word. I attempted to explain about the hand of God, the workings of the universe.  

            “Do you believe that God has a plan for every person,” I asked while I gestured at the holy card of a swami on his visor. “Do you believe that no matter what that person chooses, God’s plan--or Fate--will take control over the person’s life?” But the driver didn’t really grasp what I was saying so we gave up and talked about our mothers instead.  

So dear readers from India-- as long as you are here, can you take a moment and tell me what you believe about Fate and marriage?