Hell, you’re even a risk if you’re just out of a divorce and want to “play the field”.
And that’s the part, Pat, that I have to acknowledge on behalf of women.
If things evolved to a point where it looked like the facts would be necessary, I’d reveal them then and only then.
I never thought I’d get married—I didn't even believe in marriage—so I really never thought I’d find myself married but separated, especially at 35.
Secondly, I married not just a French man, but a dreamer; a man who still clings to the idea of being the next Paul Mc Cartney, even if he's pushing 50.
In the beginning, I found his dream to still make it as a rockstar endearing.
I have gone through the process of grieving and loss and I am ready to move on.
He was polite enough not to say the word, the “L” word we were both thinking.
But the fact that it was out there, that judgment from him (as if I don’t judge myself enough), weighed heavily on the rest the night. But I also wanted to follow that up with scientific research about love and what it does to the brain, as if it would justify what I can now comfortably call “stupidity” on my part. After that night, I decided I wouldn’t mention I was married but separated again.
I don’t think of my marriage as a failure, as some might think of their own, but I do think of myself as having been blind, and I only have myself to blame.
I guess it’s from there that the embarrassment stems: I should have better.