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Letter #1 - SMLB

Letter #1 - SMLB

Letter # 1

Dear Aireos,

Let's see, Aireos, where do I start? Well, to start with I can't believe it is happening. I am still hoping it is a dream and that when I hit the period key I will wake up. How about this period. Or this period. This period. This period.

Sorry, no such luck. None of the periods worked so I guess this whole thing is not a dream but is for real - darn.

Okay, where do I start? The lady wants a divorce. She wants out, o.u.t. in capital letters O. U. T..

That kind of summarizes the whole thing in a nutshell, but there has to be a better place to start. Let's see. Let's see - how about here:

We got married on her birthday, February 23rd 1966. She was twenty-one and I was twenty-six. We got married in a beautiful gray granite government building with a huge gold dome on top - San Francisco's City Hall. Every time I pass it now, it reminds me of how happy we once were - freshly married and passionately in love. Two young kids with the rest of our lives to live and share together, until death do us part. Right? Wrong!

That was thirty-six years ago, Aireos. Now after thirty-six years, she wants out, O.U.T.!

I know. I know. I can't believe it either.

Aireos, you are probably saying to yourself, "It took her thirty-six years to figure out she didn't 'like' you. Is she slow? Is she mentally challenged?"

No, on the contrary, Aireos, she is a bright, beautiful and very intelligent, good-looking woman. And I could not believe how lucky I was that she was married to a doorstop like me. I have always jokingly said that if she ever woke up out of her coma I would be in trouble.

Well, Aireos, I am in trouble. She just woke up!

But see I should stop that - demeaning myself like that. I'm no prize but I'm no doorstop either. I am well educated, with a Doctorate in Business Administration, nearly. I have always had high paying five to six figure jobs. I'm not hard to look at. I'm average height, five-ten and average weight, two-ten. Right now, I have a full head of white hair, I'm sixty-two and she's fifty-seven, but with her curly ebony hair and smooth clear skin, she looks thirty-seven.

I'm more the rugged looking type like Dennis Franz, the fellow who playsed Andy Sipowicz on NYPD Blue but with more hair, white, but much more of it. The only thing we share in common, however, is our rugged appearance. I'm not as gruff and surly as Sipowicz was. I'm more talkative and friendly, always with a ready smile. People say I've never met a stranger. In a conversation I'll always try to say something funny or light hearted. So, gruff and surly I'm not.

Like I said, I'm not hard to look at. But looks have never been my strength. Words. Words and a way with words have always been my strength. Loquaciousness and verbosity have always been my stock and trade.

After graduating from San Francisco State, I started off as a very successful salesman of high technology products. As the years went by, my selling skills pushed me into higher and higher paying jobs with more and more sales, marketing and advertising responsibilities. My point? The Olson's have never been on food stamps. Our two girls, now thirty-six and thirty-one, went to private schools, had braces, new cars, etcetera and graduated from good colleges. You could say the Olson's had all the bells and whistles and trapping of a successful middle-class suburban upward mobile family - in fact much of what my wife and I are trying to cut in half today came from my years of working and bringing in the bacon.

No. No. Not looks but words and my way with words have always been my strength. Glibness talked my way around my wife's defenses as a young twenty-one year old girl. Verbosity got her to the alter and loquaciousness has put food on the table even since. Quiet and taciturn I'm not. But I digress...

Back to my "doorstop" comment, the self-help books say "don't put yourself down. Don't demean yourself. Instead, think and act positive, try to pump yourself up during this time of crisis, especially around friends and family."

My cousin, Ginny, in Arkansas, when I make the "doorstop" comment in an e-mail to her announcing my wife's decision, shot back to me, "Oh My God!!!!!!!!!!!! I am soooo sorry!"

She commiserated with me for a few paragraphs then offered: "I really wish you would not put yourself down (as being a doorstop). You are a wonderful person and we love you very much. You are a great part of our family and we all (the whole family down in Arkansas) want you to know that. Don't ever think anything different."

I cried.

She continued: "You know, you always have a place to stay here at my house or any of my sisters or my brother's house. You know that. Sweetie, I don't want to seem sappy, but you are a precious member of our family and I don't think you realize how much we all love you."

I cried, Aireos, when I first read her e-mail and I'm crying now as I cut and paste it into this letter to you.

Sixty-two years old and crying like a titty-baby - can you believe it?

Excuse me for a moment Aireos I need to go off line for a minute - for a little one-on-one with myself. (Julian, stop it. You are just feeling sorry for yourself, you big baby, grow up and stop it.)

I'm sorry Aireos. I'm going to have to take a break for a few minutes.

Hi, I'm back. I feel better the cloud has passed. Maybe this thing of writing un-mailed letters has some merit.

Where was I? Oh, yeah - crying like a baby.

I don't know Aireos; I seem to cry at the drop of a hat. This divorce thing is all happened so fast and so suddenly. And this crying thing, as I understand it, has something to do with the different stages of grief, but I'll share with you what I've read and learned on the subject of Grief Management in just a moment.

But first - let's see - maybe a time line would help put things into a better perspective. I got the following e-mail from my wife on March 15th.

Original Message-- From: Peachy Olson Sent: March 15, 2002 12:23 PM To: Julian Olson Subject: appointment with the mediator

Julian, I have met with two divorce attorneys and they are very expensive. One wanted as much as a $10,000 retainer fee. I think you and I can come to an agreement regarding property settlement so, if possible, I would like to use a mediator, which is far less costly.

Ms. Bee Gordin came highly recommended. She conducts a free initial consultation with both spouses to go over the procedures using a mediator. I think it would be a worthwhile session. I left a brochure on the coffee table. It is your copy.

Julian, I would like to do this in a dignified manner so I hope you'll cooperate. I booked an appointment for us on Wed, April 10th at 11:45am. I hope you will agree to go. She sees both spouses at the same time so they need to get a phone call from you to confirm this appointment. Please call them as soon as possible to confirm this appointment.

Thank you, Peachy

What?

"Julian, I have met with two divorce attorneys."

I was staggered and confused. I thought for a moment - could I have opened someone else's e-mail? Who was this "Julian" person? Surly it wasn't me. Oh sure, my wife and I had been having a few strained moments. And yes I had for the last three months been sleeping in the spare bedroom. But, "Julian, I have met with two divorce attorneys."

I sat and stared at the computer. I read and re-read, and re-read the e-mail again and again. I slowly became overwhelmed with emotion. I was staggered and confused, shocked and baffled. Later I would become angry then sad, then angry again, then sad again, then angry, then sad, then angry, then sad.

It is now May 13th, 2002. Nearly sixty-days have passed since I got her e-mail.

For me, April was a blur. It is all moving sooooo fast. I have tried a number of times to stop or slow down this divorce bolder as it gathers momentum coming down off a high place we once shared together. I figured if I could slow it down we could talk this thing out. I even tried a few tricks like putting off the next mediator's meeting by a couple of weeks, feigning a conflict of schedules. I finally stopped all my tricks and all my carping once I "finally" reanalyzed how serious she was about wanting out. Like I said. She wants out in capital letters: O. U. T...

Why? Why is she so determined? Why is she so driven? What did I do or didn't do to cause her to want O. U. T. so adamantly, to want a D.I.V.O.R.C.E. so irrevocably?

Man, Aireos, I've been wrestling with that question and for the life of me I honestly don't know why, but here is one possible answer - I think she is being jerked around by her "Pajama Party Pals".

Her who?

I'll explain. When her current company started folding in on itself, five of the top female executives, whom she was one of, formed a support group to help each other get through the inevitable. They had lunches together; girls' nights out, movies and even weekend pajama party, all to help each other deal with the mean and malicious sucker punch life and a poor economy had popped them with. For the last few months my wife has been spending less and less time with me and more and more time with them especially at the weekend pajama parties.

Oh, I forgot to mention that this small support group consisting of single ladies, but more specifically single "divorced" ladies and they are the ones I think who are jerking my wife's head around.

Here's what I mean. I feel my wife is an "outer-directed person". By David Riesman's definition an "inner-directed person" doesn't care what the Jones think. An "inner-directed person" travels to the beat of his or her own drum.

An "outer-directed person", on the other hand, is guided by what the Jones think. An "outer-directed person" travels to the beat of their peer group's drum, or society's drum, or the world's drum, or some galactic drum - any drum but their "own" drum. My wife is like that. Since the death of her mother she is so atavistically "female-Japanese" she doesn't even own a drum any longer and I think that that is the problem. Her new majorette buddies from "PPP High" are calling cadence and marching off down a one-way street in the wrong direction.

I'm sure over decaffeinated coffee and sugarless cookies; there is a lot of "man bashing" going on, given the convoluted marital genetics of her female party pals. And I'm positive a lot of "Dear Abby" advice is being administered to my wife by female savants who have intellectually concluded that all men are "scum-sucking low-lives" from Mars or from Hell or should burn in Hell or should be tossed into the Sun or maybe just be castrated, buried in the sand, doused with honey and left to the fire-ants.

Aireos, all of the above is "in my opinion" and I'll have to warn you in advance, it could all very possibly be false. Why, because I have never met any of the ladies in question nor have I ever sat in on their get togethers or been privy to the content of their conversations. Frankly, for all I know they all may be good God fearing/Jesus loving ladies who are sitting around sharing biblical stores and moments of ecclesiastical and divine interventions in their lives.

Aireos, you have to remember I am desperate at finding something - anything to strike out at and point an accusatory finger at and scream "See? See? That - that over there is the evil that is destroying my marriage."

Oh well. I guess it is easier to point an accusatory finger than it is to look into the mirror and accept the blame.

Let's get on with it.

The mediator is a nice lady. She seems like she has been up and down the street a couple of times and nothing no longer shocks or amazes her. It's comforting working with a battle worn professional. She's also very patient and explanatory to first timers. She patiently explains what was, what is and what will be. Another thing I like about her is she pre-answers your questions before you can ask them. She answers questions I didn't even know I had.

Why a mediator verses an attorney? Other than cost, as I understand it, attorneys are best utilized when the two people can't talk to each other and need to talk through their attorneys. Mediators are best utilized when the two can be civil with each other and, with the wisdom of Solomon, can cut the baby in half equitably without one short changing the other. Mediators draft what they call the MSA, a new expression for my vocabulary. An MSA, for Californians, is the "Marital Separation Agreement". This is the final "hav'zees" agreement the judge will rubber stamp, once the mediator has done all of the legal paper work.

Our pre-MSA meeting is scheduled for May 23rd. By then my wife and I should have put a price tag on everything we own and have agreed to who gets what. The scales for each side should be equal. That information will be folded into the MSA. Once drafted, each of us will then take a copy to a different "consulting attorney". Who, at $350 an hour, will take a couple of hours to read over and evaluate the specifics, to assure the judge that another set of eyes have agreed to the equality of the agreement.

Once the judge affixes his seal, the six-month countdown clock starts. At the end of six months, no sessions are scheduled, no meetings are held, no one has to see each other for the last time and the knot that has held us together for thirty-six years becomes magically untied. The connubial cord that once bound us together falls away forever. Either of the two, or both, if they wish, can now go off and marry someone without being a bigamist in the eyes of the court.

Aireos, give me a moment.

Hi, I'm back. Sorry, the cloud, the black cloud, consumes me.

Like I said, Aireos, I seem to cry at the drop of a hat, a big guy like me. It all seems like such a dream. But I keep waking up and it doesn't go away.

Man, Aireos I wished this were a dream. And I'm going to wake up. NOW. Now. now. Oh well.

Aireos, I am wearing a powder blue long sleeve dress shirt. And where it bends at the elbow, it is wet with tears because I keep pressing my eyes into the fold of my arm, as I sit here at the computer writing this letter. I use my handkerchief to blow my nose. Can you believe such a baby?

Aireos, I don't believe my wife has cried a tear. She's too angry to cry. In fact, that is one of my theories of why we are getting a divorce so quickly. She is taking out her pent-up anger on me - our marriage, on both. I call this my "anger theory".

Honestly, I think she is angry to the bone. Other than being whipped and jerked around by her Pajama Party Pals, the real reason why I think we are getting a divorce, actually why she is divorcing me, is because she is just down right "angry to the bone".

I thought at first she had found another man and wanted out "quickly" so she could run off toward the setting sun and start a new life with him. But during a couple of brief "personal" conversations, in April, while we were doing our income taxes together, I discover she was just basically "through with me" and really just wanted out - that and nothing more. That's it! She just wanted out! Where? Anywhere - but just out, out and away from me. Out. Period. Just OUT, like right now, immediately. OUT!!!

An aside: Brief "personal" conversations is all we normally had when she or I got "pissy" with each other over the last thirty-six years. Why brief? For me it was because of my mother. She was a screamer and would fly in my dad's face the minute he came home from work - often for some minor if not obscure reason he never was made privy to. She would follow him all around the house from room to room shrieking at the back of his head, pushing, slamming and banging things around as she vented. My dad was an easygoing guy and was very patient with his loco, redheaded wife. In their marital relationship, she was the pusher and he was the pushee.

So for better or worse, the way I would handle a family argument would be to go silent.

"Ah ha", you may say. "Poor inter-relational communications is the root of your marital problems".

I would not say the root but probably a contributing factor. My thirty-one year old daughter, who is now eleven months into her new marriage, has promised that she and her husband will talk everything out, "clear and open lines of communication". I think that is wonderful and I hope their marriage last a hundred and eleven years. And it probably will, if it is left up to her - she's a doer.

My wife is not a screamer either. Being of Japanese decent she would normally suffer in traditional female Asia silence than make a fuss, fret or rail on. Asian women are like that. But I didn't marry her because of that personality or ethnic trait. I married her because she's smart, funny, clever, beautiful. But I digress.

Back to why she is basically "through with me" and wants nothing more than just OUT. Which brings me full circle back to my "anger theory".

Now get this Aireos, within the last twenty-four months she has lost her mother, two six-figure jobs, her dog and helped a daughter, in a very large and lavish ceremony, get married. She hasn't had a moment to stop and breathe. Let alone grieve her mother's passing nor her other losses.

Late last year, during the Christmas season, she sadly lost her eighty-year-old mother to a yearlong lingering illness. As the only child, she flew back and forth to Japan almost every ninety-days to her mother's bedside. Sometimes her stays were only a few days. Normally it was a weekend and a few workdays away from the job. During this period of time, she lost a job to downsizing and is now unemployed because the company she was with for the last ten months "blew through a wad of venture capital" without ever getting up off the ground, no fault of hers. She like her PP Pals were just soldiers left strewn on the battlefield of commerce. To add to all of the above, she lost her Lhasa Apsos that she bought as a cuddly little pup fourteen-years ago.

It's well documented that the most stressful things for a person to live through is to lose a loved one; the next most stressful is losing a job and then buying a house and moving. The literature points out that if not given enough time to grieve the "stress" can turn into anger. And I think, Aireos, that that is what is precipitating this divorce. She is just angry to the bone. All her pent-up frustration, exasperation, resentment, anger, wrath and rage has been seething and is now bubbling out and is being directed at me and all the negative things I have done is the last thirty-six years.

For her it's been a really tough twenty-four months and our marriage going down in flames is the culmination of it.

I've asked her repeatedly if we could slow this divorce thing down and let her heal a little over her losses.

Nope. No way! She just wants out, Aireos. Where? Anywhere - but just out, out and away from me. Out. Period. Just OUT, like right now, immediately. OUT!!!

Unfortunately for me she has her "Pajama Party Pals" working on her head 24/7, fanning the flames of discontent and throwing rose-petals on her path en route to the nearest exit.

Honestly Aireos, as far as her Pajama Party Pals go, it's not hard for me to conjure up an image of me getting pushed, punched and pummeled by a posse of pissed-off pajama clad X-wives as I try to get on a Pan American plane headed for Panama. I'm sorry. I got stuck on the "pa" sound and had to end the sentence with " Panama" when I meant to say Jamaica.

Jamaica?

Ja! Jamaica mon. But I'll tell you more about Jamaica later. For right now, I want to stay with this time line.

The pajama party weekends were about the time "I" started "acting up". I got sullen and "pissy". I complained she wasn't treating me with any respect. For the last thirty-six years I was comfortable with her leaning on me, looking up to me, seeking my advice, asking for my options and respecting my comments and counsel. I was not only comfortable but I relished her need for me and encourage her to seek out my advice and guidance.

Suddenly, she seemed to grow wings and not need my help to fly. In one of our brief conversations (ah ha, brief. take a rest!), I told her she acts differently towards me. She acts like she's all grown up and no longer needs my help nor me. I told her it's like on the Discover Channel watching a colt being born and trying to stand up for the first time. It teeters and totters, staggers and wobbles around on these stilt-like legs, much too long for its little body, until it successfully gains enough strength and balance to stand up by itself. Instead of leaning against its licking mother, in the next scene we see the dry, confident colt running and jumping crazily around in front of its grazing mother.

I told her it's like she has found her legs and doesn't need me any longer.

In the old days, like two or three months ago, we use to have long conversations (see, we communicated.) about her job and her career. My thoughtful suggestions on how to handle a difficult employee, sticky management decision or long-range business decision affecting the future of her department, the company or the industry were listened to and considered if not implemented.

All of that had changed. She suddenly stopped coming to me for my thoughts, opinions and advice.

Instead of coming to me, she started acting like some successful career woman who turned into a successful and "independent" career woman who didn't need any advice or counsel from anyone, especially from her husband.

I'm sorry. It wasn't like she was coming to a forklift-driving-husband and asking him what he thinks the economical impact of the NAFTA's free trade agreement will have on the future prices of spare parts for American cars over the next decade. Hey, after all I do have over forty-plus years of sales, marketing and advertising management experience and a Doctorate in Business Administration (almost).

Okay. Her cessation of coming to me hurt but her "dissing" me hurt even more.

Her disrespecting me (in the hood it's called - "dissing") got so intolerable for me that I finally sent her the following e-mail about the middle of January 2002:

I'm Fed Up

You are probably wondering why I'm walking around so mad at you.

You don't give me any respect.

You "dissed" me at the show. "Your pork rinds stink" (Did you just belch? - remember that one?)

You don't give me any respect.

You "dissed" me at the restaurant by taking my seat.

You don't give me any respect.

You have yet to thank me for the "hot water" or for my fixing the hot water heater.

You don't give me any respect.

There are times when I say something to you and you don't even bother to answer. That marginalizes me and makes me feel like I'm not worthy or worth the time or effort to answer.

You don't give me any respect. I'm Fed Up

Aireos, I know that all of the above sounds so petty and banal, now, but at the time they were so, sooo very important. It wasn't the actual act itself but the underlying, unspoken message that was the killer. She had changed and I didn't like what she had changed into nor how that change was manifesting itself in our relationship.

Seriously, when I used to say something to her, and she would not even grace it with an answer or a grunt or a wave-off of an annoyed hand, I felt so marginalized. I often stood there waiting like a little puppy, my tail wagging, as the master walked away without acknowledging that I was still standing there waiting with my tail wagging and my tongue hanging out. When she did that "crud", I felt so unimportant, so insignificant, so marginalized, so trivialized. Here I was, once sought after for my wisdom, advice and counsel, now I'm relegated to standing with my mouth open waiting and waiting and waiting, watching the back of her head as she walks away.

Well, so much for "my beef" with the marriage. Aireos, do you want to hear "her side" of the argument? Now you have to remember it is filtered through my "blinders" and may not be what you would hear if you asked her.

Let's first get past the expletives. I'm a bastard. I'm no good. I'm a real creep and a weasel for insisting on this or that in the Marital Separation Agreement. "Julian, your true colors are now coming out," etcetera, etcetera. And I'm sure my wife's Pajama Party Pals have many more names (and expletives) that they use to get her and themselves worked up into a lather when the cookie and cake conversation turns to that skunk, that, that, Martian, that Julian person, that Julian the Martian person.

No, that's too mild. They have to be calling me something more than just Martian Boy - how about scamp, rascal, scalawag or rapscallion. Not! Probably more like Lucifer, Beelzebub, The Evil One, the Prince of Darkness but more probably - Satan.

Oh well. Now for "her side of the story" - "her beef" - her beef is that I've been an A-hole for the last thirty-six years, an emotional abuser, and she has had enough and is now ready to do something about it.

I don't know. Maybe I was, Aireos. Maybe I was. But I know for a fact this guy I saw on TV sure was.

I just got through watching a news magazine type TV program about a woman who had been turn free after spending a year-and-a-half in prison for shooting her husband five times as he lay sleeping in their bed. Her murder conviction was overturned by the court and she walked away a free woman. The back-story was that for twenty years he had physically abused her, her two kids and his elderly mother, in a walker, who lived with them. For three days before she killed him, he held everyone prisoners in their home as he drunkenly rant, raved and waved guns around. Once he fell into a deep sleep, she took one of the guns and emptied it into his chest. Good rid'ns to bad rubbish, a victory for battered women everywhere.

Aireos, here is the story of another A-hole as reported in the San Jose Mercury News by Chuck Shepherd, reporter.

Mrs. McIntosh listened in court as the government introduced solid evidence that Mr. McIntosh, her husband of fifteen years, was "not" legally married to her and was "not" an Air Force general who frequently went on secret intelligence missions but had actually served four months in prison in 1994. The article went on to say that he took thousands of dollars out of her bank account to support various unsuccessful scams he concocted and that some of her money actually went to support his real wife and family in another city.

Now in my opinion these guys are world-class A-holes. In comparison, I'm at best a minor league A-hole. But I guess in her world I was just that - a world-class A-hole.

I don't know Aireos; it's hard for me to believe that I have no redeeming qualities. I just can't believe that there is not some woman out there who wouldn't want to spend some time with a guy who takes out the trash, vacuums and washes the clothes. Jeez, I don't drink or smoke. I don't take or use any illegal drugs. I'm a pretty healthy guy, a little paunchy maybe. The only drugs or medicine I do take at sixty-two is Sudafed for allergies once in a while.

You know Aireos there wasn't a day that went by that I didn't tell my wife how attractive she looked in that suit, or that dress or that blouse. I loved her short hair; smooth skin and sculptured nails and told her so, unfailingly. There wasn't a day that went by that I didn't tell her I loved her. My mistake. She bent, twisted and confounded that word all to dickens.

When I first met her I could not use the word LOVE. To me telling someone you loved them was an empty gesture. My mother abused the hell out of that word. To me you didn't tell someone you loved them. If you really did, you would show them in acts and deeds and not bother to use some cheap nickel and dime word like love.

Well, after thirty-six years, she taught me how to use the word and mean it and feel it. It was no longer a cheap nickel and dime word. It was a true emotion. A thing you could give unconditionally to someone.

Dang - now look what happens. She backed over that emotion with a five-ton dump truck.

Just between you and me Aireos, it's easier "not" to love. Otherwise you are just hanging out there. You're like a nudist taking a short cut through a rose garden. There's just no way in Hell you are going to come away without a scratch.

Oh well.

Aireos, I'm serious when I say there wasn't a day that went by that I didn't tell my wife how attractive she was and now in the MSA, she has charged me with being "mentally abusive".

"Mentally abusive" - Aireos, let's slow down and look at this picture more closely for a moment. For thirty-six years she loved me for my internal strength, my capability and my courage to stand up and take control, to be a leader and not a follower. Now, suddenly, I'm "mentally abusive".

Aireos this is going to be a stretch, but stay with me on this analogy: I feel like a highly decorated combat hardened Army general accidentally walking into a Viet Nam era hippy party and being called a fascist pig, a autocratic A-hole, a dictatorial bastard for his accomplishments and for what the uniform represents.

Okay, okay, maybe the general thing is a little bit of a stretch. But my point is "that which" caught her fancy and turned her head thirty-six years ago, when she was a tender twenty-year-old sophomore at San Francisco State and I was a rough-edged ex-navy guy working his way through college with two jobs, is the "same guy" today. That strength of charter, that single mindedness, that energy, drive, vitality and verve that got me a BA degree, an MBA degree and a DBA degree (nearly) and forty-plus years of good paying jobs and a comfortable life for all of the Olsons is the same strength of charter that today is being interpreted as "mentally abusive".

In my reading, Aireos, I came across a pearl of wisdom - "relationships don't end they change". I don't know maybe the guy's right, Aireos - relationships don't end, they just change. Maybe the little girl I married, who took such pride and pleasure in leaning on me has changed and has finally found her legs.

She used to tell me, because of my supportiveness, that I was the wind beneath her wings (circa Bette Midler). Now I guess I'm nothing more than a pain in her derriŠre.

Aireos, I say to her every chance I get, "Let's slow down. You're in pain. You must be. You've lived through too much trauma. I'll give you as much space as you want. I'll move out. I'll leave town. I have family in Arkansas. I'll go live with them for a while. You're between jobs. You like Las Vegas. Take a vacation. Go to Japan. For the last two years you've gone only to see a sick mother. She's no longer with us. Go visit your old high school friends this time. Go there as a tourist, visit the country, go have fun. But sweetie please, please let's just try to put some breaks on this train coming off the hill before we have a train wreck on our hands."

Her reply? "I want out. Why won't you let me go?"

Aireos, such is my plight. I love a woman who is through with me. Who wants out. Who wants me to let her go.

But you know quite frankly, Aireos, I'm "getting tired", tired of running pell-mell down this steep one-way street. I'm getting to the point where I don't want to be where she is, in the same room, the same house, the state, the same universe.

Maybe I'm getting to the point of "acceptance" as in "grief management". I'll get into more about what I've learned about "grief management" "death" and "divorce" later. Let me stay focused on this for a moment. Let me say it again, frankly I'm getting to the point where I don't want to be where she is.

I know that sounds a little twisted from a guy who keeps moaning, "Ah, baby please don't leave."

Let me say it again and see if I can't put some meat on it, "frankly I'm getting to the point where I don't want to be where she is."

Here's what I mean? When I'm here in the house, at the computer, all by myself - my life is manageable. But when I hear the garage door open (It's a noisy electric one) my heart sinks. She comes up stairs and moves from room to room without saying a word to me, as if I'm a piece of furniture or rug.

Fortunately, she often comes home late so the silence ordeal is short lived. Now days she's working as a consultant to her ex-company as it continues to slowly fold-in on itself. I'm sure she's not doing that much business with a company that doesn't have that much business to do. So I'm sure much of the late arrivals are from extended visitation with her toothy Pajama Party Pal support group. She's probably sitting around in some quite restaurant, eating a late dinner, and playing a hand of "ain't it awful" with her "buds".

Come the weekend, just so I don't have to be around her and make small talk, I'll go do something. I've gotten into hang-gliding and para-sailing and some other crazy things I'll tell you more about later.

But being around her has gotten. is getting more and more difficult.

Now Aireos, if you can believe it, this is coming from a guy who used to look forward to our time together. She was my buddy. I don't have that many friends. She, on the other hand, she thrives on friends. She needs people and people gravitate to her, automatically. She's a warm and caring person and she radiates that and people come to her. She's a people magnet. Me on the other hand, I have no friends. I have acquaintances, business associates and people I like but I don't have one close friend. She was my sole friend and my soul buddy, my soul mate. She often told me that my not having friends was not natural. That people needed friends. I told her I had the best friend anyone could ever wish for and I was married to her.

Excuse for a moment Aireos.

Dang! - I'm such a baby!

Hi. I'm back. The cloud has passed.

Unbeknownst to her Pajama Party Pals there really is a warm and cuddly side to the Julian they so effortlessly slice and dice as they play their "ain't it awful" games. The games are so one-sidedly rigged that her P.P. Pals only know the objectionable-side of Julian the Martian. I don't think they have ever been told or even know that my wife has never taken out the garbage. Does not know how to operate the washer and dryer because I do all the washing. Has never turned on the vacuum cleaner and does not know where I keep it stored. Has never dusted or wiped down the bathroom mirror or scrubbed down the tub and shower or cleaned the toilet bowls.

But like I said, being around her is now getting more and more difficult and I can't believe I'm saying that.

She and I were the best of buddies and I miss that. We laughed and held hands. On weekends we would go to a movie then go have coffee and talk about the movie and analyze it. She was a smart, intelligent woman, a pleasure to converse with and be seen with - such a beauty.

Now when I see a gray haired guy holding hands with his lady friend, I look away. Why? I don't know, maybe it hurts too much to remember better days. Or if I see an Asian woman with a Caucasian guy, I say to myself, "good luck buddy." But as I write that I realize that that is unfair to say or even think. I had thirty-six wonderful years together with an Asian woman. Plus, a smart aleck remark like that also implies that all Asian woman are some how bad, or like my wife, destined to change and leave. My problem is my wife changed but I didn't.

For that handholding Asian/Caucasian couple's love and/or marriage to endure, they are going to have to grow and change together. The opposite of that is called, "divorce", or a very unhappy marriage, that endures on some kind of perverted, sick level.

Aireos, all you have to do is pick a number, sixty-five, seventy-five, eighty-five years on this planet and then we have to "go" to make room for those coming behind us - just as those in front of us, exited to make room for us. James reminds us that life is but a vapor (James 4v14). So, if we only have, whatever that short number is, on this planet, then we should try and be happy, as happy as we can be. If you can't do that with the person you once loved and married, get someone new to love, grow old and change with.

I guess the operative word is "change with". That would be my suggestion to anyone who wants to hang onto his or her marriage. I didn't "change". My wife found her legs and grew independent. I was trying to hold onto that girl, or the memory of that girl, I married thirty-six years ago. That girl that looked up to me, leaned on me and respected me. She disappeared, vanished. The girl that took her place would "dissed" me when she was not marginalizing or trivializing me by not answering me or acting as if I were a hologram not worthy of human interaction.

Well Aireos, that little out burst felt good.

I don't know Aireos; our pre-MSA meeting is next week. Maybe after that I'll take a vacation for a couple of weeks. You know, just to get away and breath some different ozone for a while. There is no way in hell I'm going to ever get her back - I've stopped asking, whining, carping, blah blah blah. I'm resolved. Resolved? Huh, maybe this thing (un-mailed letters) is working; maybe I'm getting past the grieving thing. Maybe it's upward and onwards.

Let me re-read this epistle and see where we stand.

Aireos, I just re-read this letter and I cried. I'm not "upwards and onwards" anything, Aireos. I'm not getting past the "grieving thing". I'm still wallowing in my misery and sorrow and I guess you might as well throw in some self-pity, too.

I've got to go Aireos. I'll try to write more later. - Julian