Day 16 | Clean | Celery Tastes Just As I Remember | 7 Pounds Down; 59 to Go
I am gazing at a picture of my husband taken inside the Eiffel Tower when he was thirty-seven. There’s movement in his hair and he’s wearing a day-old beard, a white jersey and a dark blue sport coat. He’s smiling, subtly, and looking slightly off to the side, as if a half-dressed long-legged Parisian girl is sauntering across the room. Behind him, the windows are perfectly square and separated by black mullions, and the city sprawl below is shrouded by fog. He’d have suffered no language barrier—he grew up attending French Canadian parochial school and speaks the language with an elocution that knocks your socks off. He is so deliciously hunky in his relaxed state of “youth” that I want to crawl inside the Kodak paper and gobble him up, leaving no crumb behind. I was twenty-four when the picture was taken by his former wife, and he tells me he and I wouldn’t have gotten along back then .
He was a staunch Republican and had yet to hold a warm and fuzzy creature in his hands.
1989—If I had met him and liked him, it’d have saved me a lot of grief, bottles of consumption. Entering a marriage with the wrong guy in ’90. Divorced and running away in ’95. Returning in ’98 to live in my parent’s basement with no belongings except for my 5 rescued cats. The ensuing and empty affairs with married men. Meeting the owner of an escort service at Ken’s Steakhouse and deciding midway through the meal, really, this is not for me.
Perhaps, meeting him then, would have compensated for the unresolved grief that was the catalyst for my whims and wanderings and pounding the booze.