I’ve spent the better part of the last decade in love with a married man.

Or the worse part, I guess would be a more accurate descriptor.

This isn’t where I convince you to feel sorry for me, the other woman. This isn’t me trying to explain how he told me they were going to get a divorce; separate bedrooms, separate floors … separated.

Maybe they were, maybe they weren’t. I believed what I wanted to believe.

I believed what he told me.

That I was his soulmate, the woman of his dreams, too good to be true, the love of his life.

He told me all the things my husband never told me.

I believed myself when I told him he was my best friend, my twin flame, the best thing to ever happen to me, the love of my life.

We wanted each other to make our lives make sense.

I said yes, knowing the facts. I tried to give him everything I had, but he didn’t want it; and he didn’t want to leave her, so he didn’t … he left me.

Love is complicated. Relationships are messy. Marriage is a contract that everyone I know has broken the rules of in some way.

Affairs are rarely as simple as sex.

We want to been seen, loved, recognized in another person’s eyes. It’s not uncommon for those things to fade over time.

Some of the best people I know have cheated on their husbands, kissed a friend at a party, flirted a little too hard, secretly messaged someone online, lied to their wives.

Emotional affairs can be even more hurtful than physical ones.

Before we immediately judge someone for cheating we need to look deeply into ourselves and see where we’ve done something similar.

Give each other some grace then give ourselves even more.

It would be incredible if we fell in love at eighteen, got married, had babies and never looked for anyone or anything outside of our relationship. That is rarely the reality. We’re human, we grow, we evolve, we change in ways we could have never expected.

We fall in and out of love.

I fell in love with a married man. I begged, pleaded, wished on every eyelash, shooting star, and 11:11 on the microwave for the universe to let me have him. The universe is no dummy. It didn’t give me what I wanted, because I wasn’t meant to have it.

It took me seven sad years to stop trying to strong arm my destiny.

Not without a fight … I eventually let him go.

I fell out of love with someone I would have bet the ranch on never falling out of love with. Someone I wanted to marry. Someone I was willing to risk it all for.

Now, I love him in a new way; in a way that’s healthy for me. In a no contact way.

When I close my eyes my brain still says his name, but now I follow it up with

I hope you’re happy, healthy, and having the best life.

I send a new wish out into the universe.

If you want to live a miserable life — fall in love with someone that refuses to be with you. If you want to never feel good enough — date a married man. If you want to be lonelier than you’ve ever been — be the other woman.

I’ve had to forgive myself because I am the only one who can. I forgive him because I can’t harbor hatred in my heart.

I forgive you too.

I call her mother when I am being serious, I call her mama when I am being sweet, I say my mom when I am talking about her behind her back, and sometimes, now this is her favorite … old woman.

When she is doing something truly unhinged it’s “Listen here, old woman!”

I asked her if we could postpone Mother’s Day celebrations/gifts until she gets here and she replied …

“I already got you and your sister a little something I thought was interesting.”

The word interesting panics me.

When it comes to my mother, the spectrum of what she finds interesting is er, um, well … interesting.

It could be a Starbucks gift card but more likely it’s a necklace of alligator teeth, a pack of wild Mexican dogs, a crocheted hat (that she made). She could be gifting me a round of cosmic mini-golf or two plane tickets to Los Angeles. Perhaps it’s her famous pepper jelly, a couple cashmere scarves, an embroidered purse full of pesos, or a bottle of her homemade perfume.

My mother’s tastes are eclectic to say the least.

When I was younger I wanted store-bought-pre-fab-plastic-mainstream anything. What I got was homespun-with-love-handmade everything.

She is a maker. Anytime I would point out something in a store that I wanted, my mom’s automated response was “I can make that.”

As much as I hated hearing it or admitting this, a lot of the time she could. Or at the very least a somewhat passable version. She made my ballet recital tutus, the cakes with the Barbies baked into them, all of my crocheted bikinis, the costumes for every play, forth of July float, and holiday as needed.

There’s been a fair share of flubs along the way. The inedible carob brownies circa 1997 are still burned into my brain. She’s made some “abstract” paintings, a few very scary dolls, and a couple questionable looking, albeit delicious, cakes.

I just yelled to my son in the other room and asked “What’s the worst thing Yaya’s ever made?”

Without hesitation he answered “You!”

Um. Rude.

He calls her, Yaya, and there is zero doubt in anyone’s mind that the two of them are soulmates.

He turns his nose up at my store-bought halloween costumes, pre-packaged brownies, and generic Hallmark cards.

His grandmother’s son, he wants air-popped (not microwaved) popcorn, organic eggs warm from the coop, fresh baked bread, and construction paper greeting cards dripping with Elmer’s glue and glitter.

The parts of my childhood where I begged for something basic, normal, commercial are the parts of my son’s childhood he cherishes the most.

The other day I saw him wearing a long purple amethyst necklace Yaya had made for him, even at sixteen years old, he still knows the importance of gift from her, no matter how “interesting” the gift may be.

Love you, mama.

“When I move out in two years I know you’ll miss me.”

I said to JC, my roommate/ex-husband, over a glass of wine on the porch.

“As if you’re moving out. Where would you even go?”

JC scoffs, as if he knows something I don’t know.

Getting back together was never the plan when I moved in with him last year. It was temporary, it’s always been temporary, right?

Is there a world where we slowly slip back into our marriage? Like how we’ve accidentally started sleeping in the same bed again this week.

I hate to admit this but I haven’t slept this good in a decade. Cuddled up under a weighted blanket and our twelve-year-old Goldendoodle, Goldie Hawn. I only wake up once, maybe twice, to reach over the pillow barricade between us — punch JC in the arm and demand he stop snoring.

Is this what I’ve missed sleeping alone for the last ten years or with a child who refused to sleep in his own bed?

Besides the snoring, it’s been kinda … nice.

JC fills up my water and puts my phone on the charger, like in our early days of dating.

When you first start sleeping next to someone new, it’s brutal. Recently, I spent a Sleepless (three nights) in Seattle, not the fun kind either.

Every time one of you moves an inch, the other one wakes up. A lot of shifting, adjusting, readjusting. It’s a delicate dance of cuddling then rolling away, but still touching enough to let them know you’re not rejecting them, you just need to get some fucking ZZZ’s.

Having a new boyfriend is like having a new baby. Lots of eating, crying, and very little sleeping.

When JC and I first started having sleepovers it was much of the same. Anytime I would move even the tiniest amount JC would sit straight up in bed and ask

“Candy are you ok?! Do you need me to drive you home?”

I would always decline his sweet offer and stay as still as humanly possible for the remainder of the evening. In hindsight, JC, who works seven twelve-hour days per week, was probably desperate to drive me home at 4 AM so he could get some freakin’ sleep.

I refused to be the girl who had her parents pick her up in the middle of the night from a sleepover (I was totally that girl). Still sometimes, I wish I could have my mom pull-up and whisk me on outta here, then I remember — I live here and I am the mom.

One weekend during our first month of dating, as JC and I tucked into bed, I gave myself a pep talk.

“Light as a feather, stiff as a board. Don’t you move a muscle, Candy Downs. You let this poor man get some sleep.”

It worked, for him … not for me.

Staring at the ceiling I wondered how long I could live without sleep. I worked up the nerve to ever so gently reach for my glass of water, trying not to wake him. I took a sip and when I carefully set the cup down on the nightstand, JC sat up and at full volume announced

“I put two horse tranquilizers in your water.”

I froze, waiting for my impending death.

“The shed has four walls, I put a stool out there for you to sit on.”

I knew this man was too good to be true, he’s drugged me and is going to chain me up in his woodshed. I was reaching for my phone to call the police when I heard a loud snore, JC mumble something else, roll over, and continue sleeping.

I was relieved he was finally getting some rest, even if his sleep talking was something straight out of a horror film.

I poured my own water from then on.

Last night I asked JC if we should stay together, because I am tired of dating and just plain tired. He said …

“That’s not interesting for your readers, Candy!”

So to everyone who’s asked me lately why we haven’t gotten back together, you have JC to thank for that.

He’s doing it for the plot.

“Oh god, it’s fine.”

I reassure a crying man who’s breaking up with me via voice text.

“Of course we’ll stay friends, duh!”

I text while deleting all the pictures of him off my phone.

As someone who’s read He’s Just Not That Into You at least twice in their twenties, I’ve learned to let it roll off my back.

Kate Hudson’s been dumped, Beyoncé got cheated on, Lyle Lovett fumbled his marriage to Julia Roberts.

I remind myself, as to not take it personally when someone says they don’t want to keep dating me. I try not to let it knock my self-esteem even though, I know, given the chance most men would fuck a grilled cheese sandwich.

“He’s probably overwhelmed by his feelings for you, there’s literally no other reason he wouldn’t want to go out again.”

My friend consoles me, I nod in agreement despite believing that if a man really wants to be with you … there is little you can do to stop him.

“Oh, it’s so fine!” I tell her/myself.

Another man will happen along quicker than the next city bus.

One does, as they always do.

I’ve been accused of collecting men.

Which would imply I am out here shopping, antiquing, perusing for a rare specimen of a man.

This couldn’t be further from the truth. A collector keeps things, I do not. I cut bait fast and often, as to not get hooked.

When I leave the house, it’s not to shop for men. It’s to shop for groceries, do the school drop-off, or give someone a haircut, if I happen upon a boyfriend or twelve along the way that’s not my fault.

Ok, fine. Once a year (twice at most) I’ll decide to cast a line out at the dive bar in the neighboring town.

Finding a date for the night is like shooting fish in a barrel. Typically I walk up to the tallest, dark-haired, mustached, hopefully-single man … kiss him, and tell him he’s my boyfriend now.

You’d be amazed at how well this works.

Who cares if he’s in his twenties, let me live, damnit!

But that’s as far as it goes. I don’t want to spend the night with him, sleep on his mattress with no sheets, meet him for brunch in the morning, or even save his number in my phone.

I only wanted a little male attention before going back to my regular scheduled programming, is that so bad? If you think I’m using men, feel free to take a little scroll through my DMs. You will find a whole host of them using me for ego validation daily.

Us cool girls don’t get attached. We don’t fall in love, even when we do, we’re cool about it.

I’m currently in love with a man I will never meet. How’s that for cool?

The trick is to pick the one furthest away.

“Nebraska! It’s perfect, he’s never going to come here.”

I tell my friend.

“That’s what you said about the guy from LA, the San Fran man, and lest we forget … Japan.”

She’s right. I have had a few good men, fly in. One of which I haven’t even blocked yet. I’m happy to report we’ve remained … friends.

These men all had one thing in common, they caught me in a moment of weakness.

Fresh off a heartbreak, my defenses down, the walls were flimsy.

Even then, I maintained my devil may care attitude, because cool girls don’t let anyone in.

We’ll allow you to see just enough of us to make you believe, then reel it in before it gets too real.

I’ve spent most my life loving avoidant unavailable men, it’s served me well until it hasn’t.

Careful what you say to the girl who looks like she gets the most men, because she might actually be the loneliest cool girl in the world.

Don’t text me unless you’ve had a vasectomy:

I adore kids, I have one, he’s pretty cool. Even so, if you’re of an age where you want to spread your seed or sow your oats, please engagement farm elsewhere. I will not be bearing your fruit, sir, good day.

I would prefer to date a daddy, sorry, I mean a dad:

If you have a gaggle of little blonde girls that I can dress alike and put ribbons in their hair like I am Maria von Trapp, I’m sold. Preferably their mother is out of the picture, not dead, oh god no, she’s pursuing her dream of becoming a country western singer in Nashville.

She brings her guitar when she comes for Christmas and we all gather ‘round the fireplace to sing a rousing rendition of “My Favorite Things.”

My dream date would be me drinking wine while I watch you detail my car:

First dates, to me, are akin to a job interview or jury duty, something I will eventually have to do but I’ve successfully avoided most my life.

I would rather watch you change the oil in my car than sit face to face with you at a restaurant. Hell, I would rather be the one changing the oil than have to make small talk over a fancy 37 course dinner.

Ideally we would meet out in the wild (at a dive bar) organically strike up a conversation, order a couple burgers and throw back a few beers … for as long as we both shall live.

My exes are my roommates:

This is a tricky one to explain, hence I’ve based my entire writing career on it.

We don’t all live in the same house, that would be weird.

My exes have joint custody of me; I divide my time. It’s not like they pass me back and forth, at a roadside Taco Bell, every other weekend like divorced parents do.

I can drive myself now.

This arrangement has to do with the cool kid I mentioned above.

Sometimes good parenting looks like co-parenting in unconventional ways.

Unconventional only if you think being best friends and having sleepovers with your exes is “unconventional.”

I feel little need to explain this further, but I will say, almost all the guys I’ve told this to think it’s a “green flag” that my exes still want to be friends with me. *read I’m not crazy.

Don’t DM me if you’re married:

Here’s the thing you can DM me, but if you are married don’t send me anything you wouldn’t want your wife to to see (or post on the local Trader Joe’s bulletin board). Odds are I find your wife more attractive than you anyways. Let’s keep this all on the up and up, ok.

“But Candy, you’re still technically married?”

Nice try, noob. I told JC yesterday that some guy asked me out, you know what he said?

“The burrito man was at the grocery store today, he had his ‘Have a burrito!’ hat on and I ordered a burrito. It was the best day of my entire life.”

You think JC gives two fucks? Nah, he just wants you to be nice to me.

I hate bad texters:

As a communication-lovin-libra, I love good text as much as I love good sex.

I know you’re busy out there making that money, honey. You have all those children, probably some farm animals too. I get it, I’m also busy. This matcha isn’t gonna make itself. But if at the bare minimum you can’t text me

“Good morning, Gorgeous.” and “Goodnight, Babe.”

every day. We ain’t gonna work. If it sounds like I am asking a lot, I’m not.

There are men out there pulling their semi trucks off the highway to text their girlfriends. That astronaut called his wife from the moon, the fucking moon!

Don’t slide in if you don’t plan on sliding in consistently.

If you’re in a different time zone:

A much as I enjoy waking up to a 4 a.m. text from my east coast friends; if you live in Boston, London, or somewhere equally far, don’t bother messaging me unless you plan on uprooting your life to move where I live.

I know this sounds harsh but I’ve tried to make it work with long distance loves and it doesn’t. I need a boyfriend who is right in front of me or I don’t remember I have a boyfriend.

Please don’t DM me if you want me to boost your ego:

Cause the thing is, I will.

I will make you feel seen, heard, validated. I will highlight all your best qualities. I will be interested in your interests. You will think that you’re in love with me, but you wont be. You’ll be in love with the way I make you see yourself.

Then when I feel invisible, which is inevitable, I will leave.

If you take one piece from this piece let it be this: You’re the only one responsible for how you feel about yourself. Outside validation will always be that, outside.

Text people only if you’re genuinely interested in them, not to make yourself feel good.

(I’m guilty of this too, obviously.)

Have I successfully alienated everyone? Did I miss anything? Like don’t message me when you’re drunk? I would never say that, drunk texts are my favorite texts to send and receive.

Happy girls can write sad poems

and even sad girls can fall in love

in April.

Here are some things I have written this month …

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One of the most annoying things my mother has ever said to me is …

You have to choose to be happy

She’s driven this sentiment home my entire life. To which I have scoffed because nobody can “choose” to…

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If I had your ears I’d hear music without lyrics. The 808 beat of your heart. I’d listen to your laugh whenever I wanted. If I had your ears I’d believe me when I told you everything’s going to be ok.

If I had your nose I’d remember the scent of my shampoo on your pillowcase. My pheromones on your chest. In the middle of the night, when we kissed, our breath.

If I had your mouth I could speak volumes on art, dance, and cherry red lips. I’d ask me why I drink so much Diet Coke. If I had your mouth I would hold me down and sink your sharp teeth into my hip.

If I had all that … I’d look me in the eye, hear what I have to say, inhale me one last time, then kiss me goodbye.

As if you own my initials,

while another woman owns your last name.

An entire lifetime waiting for you and you have the audacity

to tell me I’ve moved on too soon.

You don…

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He said casually, taking a sip of his brown sugar oat milk latte.

“I know, that’s what I love about you.”

I grabbed my basic bitch iced matcha from the counter and we sat down.

“It would be an insult to love if you told me you loved me. You don’t even know me.”

I didn’t want him to be like all the others. The ones so quick to love bomb. Promises of forever before ever having met me. The pressure of dangling so high off their pedestals. The blanks they’ve been filling in since we started texting. Pieces strung together in their minds to create an impossible illusion to live up to. Blind to the reality of me, of us.

I liked that he didn’t like me all that much, it’s probably why I loved him.

I slid my pain au chocolat across the table and watched as he ate the entire piece of chocolate out of the middle.

“Um. Excuse me. That was mine!”

He fed me a bite of his almond croissant. I laughed and exhaled powdered sugar all over his jeans.

“Excuse you!” He scoffed, before kissing the sugar off my cheek.

No, he’s definitely not in love with me.

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hot — glowing — red.

Familiar but different, roles reversed.

This time I was the burner, he was the hand.

I took every hit as he fired away.

Misdirected inflammation.

…

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He reached his hand behind searching for mine

…

I caught up quickly.

A squeeze when the light changed signaled he was ready to go. I held on too tight. He untwined his fingers to open the restaurant door.

We kissed on the mouth in front of the hostess that hated us.

Sleepless Seattle nights met with mimosa mornings.

Long talks met with hours of silence.

He and I … met.

Let’s go for a drive he said and I mapped us to the mountains.

His hand on mine the entire ride.

Dark Persuasion couldn’t persuade him.

We kissed goodbye in front of the airport traffic that hated us.

He held my hands but we made no plans.

I didn’t need anything besides that weekend

…

and maybe another mimosa.

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We learn about ourselves by analyzing our reactions in relation to others.

Picking up on patterns perpetuated time and again by our partners. Collecting data and storing it in our memory banks to rem…

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Water spills over the edge, onto the floor, under the door.

It went cold a long time ago.

I let it run.

I could have stopped it, turned it off, pulled the plug.

I let it run.

I knew it was wrong, there’d …

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I will no longer be counting my age in years, only decades. I’ve decided to be forty until I am fifty, then fifty till sixty and so forth.

Such as a baby’s age should not be counted in months after, …

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Untouched, unbothered, unopened since the last time the ghost of you grabbed me by the wrist and led me up there.

Your scent swirling in …

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JC asks as he walks through the back door on his lunch break. I shake my head. He takes a plate of pork chops out of the fridge, holds one up by the bone and waves it at me as if to…

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