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A Fairy Tale for Women Who Are Afrayd -- Part One


     Once Upon A Time…there was a fella so nice, so polite, that I couldn’t leave him. He was tall, lean, handsome of face and form. He had a job, that lo, took most of his time and energy and gave him little satisfaction, but at least he was employed in a way that did others some good. He did many things that did others good.

     As a boyfriend, though alas, he was often thought upon as a friend one would like at to yell, he had traits of unimpeachability and pass-as-a-husband lookiness that held him in good stead for nigh upon five years.

     Several times, say, at Michaelmas and at Christmas each year, though he was Jewish, the painful idea of up-breaking and free-ness making would fall upon us. Or more accurately it would fall upon him, as I was the up-breaker of record on each of these occasions.

     Willing him aloft to go, I would sometimes gather the courage to say to him, BF, this no more can I take. He would anger or forsooth be sad, rightfully wondering how long had I harbored such thoughts and what my secret agenda might be. Nary a change nor a progress in relationship building would be made hereupon, however, because when I tried to avow unto him my big plans for myself and my desire for him to be more open or go away, he would tell me how hurt he’d been when his wife vanished into the forest. He never would tell me, dumb-lass me, why it tooketh him ten years to marryeth that woman. I only meekly asked, not wanting to stresseth him-- poor, poor him.

     By phone and by letter I further beseeched him, “Set me free!” By texts did I offer him good-byes. Pondering apartness he would beseech me in return: “I’m ready” (breakup #1). “I’m really ready” (breakup #2). “I’m really, really ready” (breakup #3). One time he proved his preparedness by boasting, that in effort to make room for me in his aerie, he’d taken four satchels to the donation tree by his frog pond all by himself. Oh, how my heart leapt one micromillimeter for joy! Imagine, f-o-u-r satchels!!

     Asunder we were torn, a week here, a fortnight there, and once for twenty-four hours. Most recently I held out for nearly a full moon!

     But alack, lest I act adultish and kind but firm, I back would take him. This last time, O, these four seasons but one ago, we reunited under the “better friends than enemies” banner, and a parade was not held in our honor. In fact, all my brethren declared me ridiculous to my face. Or perhaps I just saw it in their eyes. Yes, I saw it in the eyes of my sons, my daughter, my brodors and sisters, my chihua-wolves, and the good farmer from whom I buy my eggs upon a Saturday, at yon outdoor faire.

     Why, you reposte so justly, would I not leave someone by whom I’d grown excessively irritated?

    Hereth be why. Quiddled with doubt have I been, to no one that knows me’s surprise, because of the following queries:

Is he not the nicest boyfriend I hath ever known? Yes.

Is he not in love with me? Yes, I think so. He said so.

Have I not been in love with him? Why yes, very much so.

Do not most, if not all, adult relationships weather alternating seasons of like/dislike, approval/disapproval, secret thoughts of leaving/hesitations about leaving/stuckness about leaving? OK, if not most, then many?

Is my quest or is it not to become adult and thereby learn what adult behavior be and what it be not, and be it a worthy quest? Yes.

Might I learn on this quest that “adult” means up-with putting my flawed other adult of choice as all other adults in a coupling do to some extent? Yes, I might.

Might I also learn that I have been wrong?? Wrong to hide from him my strong desire to separate, wrong to hide my beliefs that he really understands me not, and wrong not to bring up the things I loathe about the relationship? Yes, yes, and yes.

     Herewith it occurs to me, as if looking into a grocery-foraging satchel I’ve been neglecting in my back saddlebag for a while, that the mess is mine and mine alone. If I had a sword, I should falleth upon it, but only to metaphorically cut off the part of me that I need no longer—that part of me which is afraid to challenge my Self in relationship to another person. In case they geteth mad at me.

     Hark! Hark I say again! Why the dragon’s torching breath am I afraid to make someone mad????? Are YOU afraid to make someone mad??? Of what are we afraid—that someone will yell? Stormeth out? Use WORDS of defense and spite aimed directly at our egos??? Oh, how devastating that would be!!! The universe would be changed forever!!! My bank accounts would wither and thither; my clothes would all disappear from the village dry cleaner-- I would gain 56 sacks before the cocke crows again!!! This would be the biggest disaster in the history of my lyfe and in everybody in the whole kingdom’s lyfe!!! No one can get MAD at me!!!


     Behold me, for I am frustrated, and I am too old for this. I need a break; I need a plan.

     And, as if by magic, A Plan Arriveth....

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