Mid Life Love

This is a work
of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of
the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.

Co
py
r
ig
ht
© 2013
b
y
Whitney Gracia Williams

All ri
g
hts re
se
rv
e
d. No
pa
rt of this book may
b
e
re
produced, st
o
r
e
d in a retrie
v
al
sy
stem, or
t
r
a
nsmitted in a
n
y fo
r
m,
o
r
b
y
a
n
y me
a
n
s
, ele
c
tronic,
m
e
chani
c
al,
p
hotoco
pying
,
r
ecordi
n
g
o
r otherwise, without prior permission of
the author.

Cover photograph by Kelsey Christina
Karstrand

http://www.flickr.com/photos/[email protected]/7097187441/in/photostream

––––––––

F
or
those who believe in a second chance at love...

D
ear Journal,

I just realized that the key to
advertising can be summed up in one word: Bullshit.

That’s right, the key behind
every single strategic slogan, even the greatest ones—Nike’s “Just Do It,”
McDonald’s “I’m Lovin’ It,” and L’Oreal’s “Because You’re Worth It”—is pure
bullshit
.

It’s all about making the
customer think that those one hundred dollar tennis shoes work ten times better
than the twenty dollar ones, even though they’re made of the exact same
materials. It’s about making people believe that the Big Mac is the tastiest
American sandwich—despite the fact that it’s over-processed, slightly dry, and
full of pink slime. And last but not least, it’s about making each and every
woman think that putting on L’Oreal’s latest nude lipstick and waterproof mascara
will make her look like a million dollar celebrity.

As a marketing director at Statham Industries, the
number one software company in the country, my team and I have the “privilege”
of coming up with new bullshit every day. Everything our company produces—cell
phones, laptops, advanced tablets, et cetera—needs a savvy slogan and a
matching promotional campaign months before it can be officially released. 

My job is to make sure that only the best campaign
ideas get sent up to the approval committee, so in all actuality,
nothing
should be sent up. Ever.

All my associates are recent college graduates and
future copyeditors. (God bless their poor, unfortunate souls...) Some of them
have potential, but the majority of them don’t. Whenever I reject their
proposals with pages of red-inked notes, they whine and say, “Can’t you just
give it a try? Can’t you send it up anyway? I got an ‘A’ in Business Marketing
in
college
!”—as if that means a goddamn thing in the real world...

These “grade-A” geniuses recently submitted the
following taglines for Statham Industries’
s
Phone, the iPhone’s biggest
competitor: “
s
Phone. Because ‘s’ comes
after
‘i’.” “The new
s
Phone.
You
so
want it.” “
s
Phone. Because we can.”

See? This is the type of fuckery I have to listen to
(with a straight face) for hours on end.

To make matters worse, the CEO of the company—who
never
makes an appearance, sends out incessant memos about policies that don’t make
any sense. He recently implemented “hourly parking zones” in the parking lot to
“better enable employees to get home quickly and safely,” but the real reason
is to discourage overtime. (Cars left in the lot after five fifteen are
immediately towed away)

How ridiculous is that?

He also paid some idiot
two million dollars
to speak to all company employees, an idiot who passed out bean bags and
“energizing packets” to boost employee morale.

We now have to attend weekly “Zen sessions,” monthly
“coming together” focus groups, and spend thirty minutes a day writing in our
“Zen journal,” i.e.
you
.

Yes, believe it or not, you were almost tossed into
the trash seconds ago, along with the rest of that useless “Zen” crap. However,
something told me to reconsider that once I flipped through your empty pages...I
guess I can use you as a therapeutic device instead.

I hate you and I hate my pathetic
excuse for a career,

Claire.

PS—I promise I don’t normally
curse that much...on purpose...

C
laire

My reflection
was lying to me.

She was showing
me a happy woman in bright red lipstick and coral eye shadow, a woman who
looked like she’d just won the lottery—not a brokenhearted woman who’d spent
the past four years trying to put her life back together.

You don’t look
your age...You don’t look your age...

I could
practically pinpoint where my wrinkles would come in, where the creases near my
eyes would multiply and spread out over time; where my lips would eventually
thin out and dissolve into my mouth. So far I’d been lucky, but I was pretty
sure the hundreds of anti-aging and wrinkle-prevention creams I’d been using
were the real reason why.

I was turning
forty in two weeks and I was suffering from all the symptoms of a mid-life
crisis. I was questioning everything I’d ever done, comparing myself to all my
friends, and wondering if I would ever find more fulfillments in life. I’d even
started making a list of everything I needed to do once I hit the big 4-0:

1) Make a plan
to quit my job in five years and pursue my dream career: Interior Design.

2) Pay off all
my credit cards and start making larger mortgage payments on my house.

3) Stop reading
so many romance books...

4) Save up
enough to take my daughters on a week-long cruise in the summer.

5) Stop looking
for potential wrinkle-lines and quit considering Botox.

6) Clean my
house from top to bottom and KEEP it clean!

7) Stop blaming
myself for my ex-husband’s affair...

8) Stop hating
my ex-best friend for being part of the affair...

9) Treat myself
to a new restaurant every month.

10) Learn to be
happy
alone
.

“Claire! Let’s
go! We’re going to be late!” My friend Sandra called from the kitchen.

“Coming!
Coming!” I grabbed my jacket and headed downstairs.

I took another
glance at myself in the hallway mirror and cursed under my breath. I couldn’t
believe I’d agreed to let her drag me out to another singles mixer. I never
found anyone worth my time at those things, and the foul scent of desperation
always hung in the air.

“You look
stunning!” Sandra tugged at my strapless black dress. “Can I
please
borrow your wardrobe?”

“Only if I can
borrow your life...”

She rolled her
eyes and ignored my pessimism as usual. “Tonight is the night you’ll meet the
right guy! I can feel it!”

She always says
that...

“Do we really
need to go to another one of these things, Sands? I have some marketing
research I could—”

“On
New
Year’s Eve
? Are you out of your mind? We’re going out!”

“What’s the
point? We’ve been to a ton of these things and it’s always the same...Can’t we
just stay in, drink some wine, and go over our resolutions?”

“Claire...” She
walked over to my front door and opened it. “We’re going out. Now. You don’t
have any work to do and you know it. And it’s your turn to drive so let’s go!”

––––––––

I
stood in the
winding buffet line and tossed a few veggie chips onto my plate. I looked up at
the banner that hung over the bar and sighed. It read “New Year’s Middle-Aged
Singles’ Mixer: Let’s Get Jiggy!”

Aside from the
tacky banner, the interior of Pacific Bay Lounge left a lot to be desired:
Surfboards served as table tops, old park benches were strewn about, and dingy
blue and green streamers hung from the ceiling to simulate “waves.”

Tonight, the
lounge was way over-capacity—not a huge surprise since lonely people seemed to
flock to these types of events. I was so used to them that I’d become quite the
people reader: The guy standing by the window was at least sixty, the blond
hair dye he’d been using to look twenty years younger was beginning to fade.
The woman who was dancing against the speakers was clearly going through a
divorce; she was still wearing her wedding ring and she tossed back a shot
every time the DJ yelled “Cheers to all the single ladies!”

I’d been there.
Done that.

On the window
seats that lined the far wall, shy women were fidgeting with their hair and
clothes like nervous high school students. Most of them were being forced to be
here and had probably never had a fully-functioning relationship in their
lives.

I grabbed two
beers from the end of the table and sat on an empty couch, observing one man’s
poor attempt to get a shy woman to dance.

“Is this seat
taken?” A gorgeous man with grey eyes smiled at me, interrupting my fascinating
people watch.

“No. No, it’s
not...”

“Great.” He sat
down and put his beer on the table. “I’m Lance. What’s your name?”

“Claire. Claire
Gracen.”

“That’s a pretty
name. What do you do for a living, Claire?”

“I’m a marketing
director for a software company. What do you do?”

He tapped the
label on his beer. “I own and manage a beer company, Leyland Beers. It’s in
Nevada.”

“Very
impressive,” I said. “So, what do you—”

“How old are
you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Ugh, here we go...

“I’m
thirty-nine, and yourself?”

“Wow...” He looked
me up and down. “I’m forty seven. Do you have any kids?”

I felt myself
smiling. “Two daughters. You?”

“No, I don’t
have any kids. Life’s
way
too short for that—no offense. Can I call you
sometime?”

Seriously? Is
that all it takes these days? Age? Kids? Phone number? Is the art of
conversation that DEAD?

“Umm sure...” I
forced a smile. “It’s—”

“Wait. How old
are your kids? Are they ‘with-the-babysitter-tonight-age’ or are they
‘secretly-stealing-beer-out-of-your-cabinet-while-you’re-gone-age’? I have to
be frank with you because I’m not looking for anything serious, and all you
women with kids tend to be more—”

“You know what?”
I stood up. “I have to go to the restroom. I’ll be right back.”

I pushed through
the crowd and made my way to the outside deck, where lots of singles were
watching the ripples of the Pacific Ocean swell up and down. I took a deep
breath and inhaled the salty wet air—the one thing I had yet to get used to
since moving to the West Coast. 

I looked over my
shoulder and saw Sandra talking to yet another guy, teasingly rubbing his
shoulder and biting her lip. She caught me staring and motioned for me to come
over. She was mouthing “He has a friend!”

I turned around
and rolled my eyes.

“I take it
you’re not having a good time?” A husky voice said from beside me. 

I didn’t even
bother looking at him. I didn’t want to engage in any more pointless
conversations or mundane introductions. I just wanted to go home. 

I sighed. “I’m
thirty nine. My birthday’s in two weeks. I’ve been divorced for four years and
I have two teenaged daughters.”

I didn’t hear
him say anything else. I turned to my left and saw that he was halfway across
the deck.

I took another
swig of my beer and shook my head. I knew I wasn’t helping myself by pushing
every potential suitor away, but I couldn’t help it. I still couldn’t believe
that I was actually
single
.

My life had been
picture perfect years ago—fourteen year marriage to a man who I thought loved
me, pretty Pittsburgh neighborhood in the suburbs, amazing career that was
almost on the brink of being legendary—but then one day it was over. Just like
that. The priceless picture couldn’t be put back together; it couldn’t be
saved.

It was tattered,
forever ruined, and I was the one who emerged with the most cuts...

I sent Sandra a
text and made a break for the parking lot, turning down numerous offers to
dance on my way out.

“Hey, hey, hey!”
Sandra climbed inside the truck and shut the door. “We’ve only been here twenty
minutes! Don’t you at least want to stay for the New Year’s countdown?”

“No.”

“Why? What’s
wrong? I saw the guy you were talking to in there! He was good-looking!”

“Look Sands, I’m
not twenty anymore. I can’t keep coming to these things expecting to meet the
love of my life. I met mine already, remember?” My voice cracked. “It didn’t
work out...”

I leaned back in
my seat and forced a lump down my throat.

The thought of
losing my husband to my best friend still hurt to think about. The divorce was
long over, but the pain still woke me up some nights, still dragged me out of
my sleep and hit me over my heart like a twenty pound sledgehammer.

“You’re thinking
about Ryan and Amanda, huh?” She handed me a Kleenex. “You have to stop beating
yourself up about it. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I was so blind
to it!” I began to cry. “I let her in my house! I trusted her with my kids! I
trusted them both with everything!”

“I’m so sorry,
Claire...”

––––––––

M
y marriage to
Ryan Hayes was a fairytale—at least it was to me. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t
entirely perfect, but we had far more amazing days than good days, more good
days than average days, and hardly any bad days.

Ryan was
everything I ever wanted in a man. He was attentive and caring, thoughtful and
compassionate, and he always remembered the little things that made me happy:
Hot coffee on the rainy days I spent typing away in our home office, a warm
blanket when I fell asleep in front of the fireplace, and endless chocolate
chip cookies and candy bars whenever it was my time of the month.

Every time he
came home from work, he brought me a single red rose and kissed me like his
life depended on it. He treated me to the country club’s spa once a month while
he volunteered to watch our daughters for the day. He even surprised me
sometimes by beating me home and cooking dinner for all of us.

He was my rock.
My soul. My everything.

I honestly
thought our love would transcend time, that I was one of the lucky ones who
would be able to truly uphold the “til death do us part” mantra.

Yet, somewhere
between the thirteenth and fourteenth year of our marriage, Ryan began to
change.

He started
coming home later and later. He didn’t leave his cell phone out like he
normally did; he was extremely protective of it and often took calls in another
room. He was more elusive—vague, and anytime I said that I needed to run to the
store, he would jump up and volunteer to do it for me.

At first, I
figured that the late nights had something to do with his new promotion to
partner at the law firm; that his recent clingy-ness to his cellphone was just
him wanting to be alert should he receive an emergency client call. I couldn’t
figure out why he was volunteering to do every single grocery run since he’d
always loathed any type of shopping, but I took advantage of not having to do
it myself.

I chalked
everything up to him wanting to be a “super-husband,” and used my extra free
time to hang out with my best friend since high school, Amanda.

Amanda’s
vivacious personality could force the most sullen person to smile. Her
voluminous auburn hair and naturally toned body could rival most teenagers, and
her love for literature was as immense as mine.

At age thirty
five, she and her husband Barry were still attempting to have their first baby.
They’d attempted everything short of hiring a surrogate, but they hadn’t lost
hope.

With each
in-vitro fertilization treatment, I would bring her a new baby
purchase—booties, bibs, collectible teddy bears, and assure her that the
doctors were wrong, that she could and
would
bring a child into the
world.

So, when she
called me one afternoon with news that she was finally pregnant, I cancelled my
family BBQ and relocated our celebration to her and Barry’s home.

Six months
later, Barry called me while I was leaving work. He was talking so fast that I
could only make out every other word.

“Barry?” I tried
to sound calm. “I can’t...I can’t understand you...Are you crying? Is something
wrong with Amanda? Is she okay? Did something happen with the baby?”

“The baby,” he
said, and then he was quiet for a while. “The baby...The baby’s not mine. It’s
not mine...”

“What? Barry,
you’re being ridiculous. You two have been trying to have a baby in every way
possible for
years
. You’re just nervous because he’s almost here. You’re
going to be a great father and—”

“I was going
back and forth to Texas in May...We might’ve had sex once during that month.
Maybe.”

I stilled. I
remembered that.

Amanda had been
complaining about how little he was at home due to his job. He’d been demoted
and his company was making him do all the grunt work, denying his request to
attend out-of-state meetings via video chat.

I remembered her
crying about how alone she felt, how she didn’t think Barry was as serious
about having a natural born baby as she was because he’d started talking about
adoption. 

Still, I refused
to believe that Amanda’s baby wasn’t his. Who else could it have belonged to?

“Barry, I think
you’re being paranoid...That one time could’ve been
the
time you know? I
think you should call and discuss this with her. I don’t think I’m the right—”

“It’s not mine.”
He groaned. “Meet me at the Marriott around the corner from your job. I know
you two are
supposedly
great friends, but I need to show you something.”

“Okay...” I hung
up and called Ryan.

“Hey baby,” he
whispered. “I’m in a meeting. What’s going on?”

“I need you to
pick the girls up from dance practice today.”

“Okay, not a
problem. Is something wrong?”