In celebration of my fourth divorce, which, according to my lawyer, became final on Wednesday, I’m taking a look back.
Nine years ago this month, I was fired from the best job I’ve ever had. That event was the catalyst that ended marriage number three, although it took another year for the realization that it was over to really set in.
That was also the last time that I was in a full time romantic/intimate cohabitation arrangement. I had to take a job in another state, and was only home on weekends. The relationship ended before we could get back under the same roof full time.
I’ve been in ten relationships as an adult. Two were with the same woman, separated by several years. Yes, I’m an idiot. But she’s a redhead, and I have a weakness… The results:
Four marriages, one of which was barely consummated, and never had the benefit of cohabitation.
Three engagements that didn’t make it to the altar or life under the same roof.
One cohabitation situation that didn’t make it as far as an engagement.
Two others that lasted long enough to become intimate, but never made it past I love you.
But that doesn’t tell the whole story.
Of my more than twenty-six years as a legal adult, I’ve spent roughly four years in relationships with separate living arrangements.
A little over eight years saw me sharing a roof with my partner.
And the remaining fourteen years I have been alone.
And that is the pathetic extent of my love life. None of the last third of my adult life have I been a relationship that lasted as long as six months, much less progressed to the point of cohabitation.