Everything Old Is New Again

We locals like to squeeze out every last bit of September's warm sunny days. Only when our tans start to fade do we reluctantly put away our shorts and pull out warm stuff, like the plain, old gray crewneck sweatshirt I've had for years that always gets complements. The sleeves have ribbons that tie into bows at the wrist, which is impossible to do alone-even with my teeth, so I have to wear it to work and make someone there tie them.  Despite being old and unmanageable, that sweatshirt makes me happy.

This summer, a few of my single acquaintances also found once unmanageable old things that are making them happy as well: they've up-cycled their ex-spouses.  

One couple fought so loudly at the kids' sporting events that no one would sit near them in the bleachers.  When they split, she just about put up a billboard talking about what an jerk he was. For years I'd see her out with guys at concerts, festivals and the like.  Beginning this summer, her ex started showing up at events she was at, and last month, they danced together on the boardwalk. Trying not to be nosy even though I was damn curious, when I saw her grocery shopping, I had to ask about the dance.  She rolled her eyes, smiled and said "the enemy I know is easier to deal with then the enemy I don't". Their kids insisted they play nice for the grands at family holidays and parties.  She said that since bringing a date was uncomfortable for everyone, they got back together.  "Besides" she said, "he's mellowed. We only have fights over whether the grands loves him or me more."

Another woman, a real go-getter when the kids were little, had a husband who was just a little more active than a sloth.  She threw him to the curb, bought a motorcycle and started traveling with a wild senior group all over the country.  It took a few years but her ex decided to go out and win her back with his own motorcycle.  They just got back from the west coast, sporting studded black leather jackets and pants,  She told me that she likes him a lot more now than the first thirty years because he's really a lot of fun.

In The Walking Dead, besides astronauts and kittens, zombies hate regifting.  In the broadest context, I presume zombies would have the same aversion to up-cycled exes.

Reconnecting with any of my past relationships, and there weren't many, is as futile as facing Mariano Rivera in the bottom of the ninth:  First Love-dead (strike one). Mr. Jock-married to a much younger woman (strike two). Wingman-dead (strike three and yer out). Who else was there??? Pre-Wingman, I dated a guy who, when I re-introduced myself one night, had absolutely no recollection of me at all.  Had I known he would make me feel so awkward, I would have brought the postcard he sent me from Florida where he wrote "I miss you and I miss my guitar". Or the guy a mutual friend insisted that we'd be a good match until he came out to me as gay and moved to San Francisco to run an Aids crisis center.  Or post Wingman, the widower who asked me out six weeks after his wife died and was a one-and-done date non-contender.  Sadly, he's dead too.

When Wingman died and Sandy flooded the house, I got everything new. New furniture. New flooring. New, new, new inside and out. The bedroom was newly painted sage green, which was the nicest and most comforting color.  Here in condo world, I stupidly picked the 2019 color-of-the-year pink which turned out to be just a little more subtle than Pepto Bismol. Opening one eye in the morning and looking at it almost makes me nauseous, so when November rolls around and I step away from my manager position, I'm painting the room sage green.  My favorite old new color will make me happy again.

As happy as that old sweatshirt. But I'm thinking as I step away from work, I'm going to have to find someone new to tie the bows.