A Not-So-Short Post on My First Marriage Part Deux

WordPress ate my original post. I hope I can reconstruct it. I will give it the old college try.

When I left you at the altar in my last post, I neglected to mention a few key items. There was some dust and dirt in the brief time between October and February.

Before you think it was pregnancy, think again. Becoming pregnant (for me anyway) would prove to be a daunting task. It wasn’t that I dropped out of school. That wasn’t even an option.

No, it was something more serious than that.

I found that I wasn’t in the least bit attracted to my ex.

There was no sizzle, no spark, no hots, nothing. Sure he was nice to look at, but eye candy isn’t going to satisfy you in bed. If you had to grade our chemistry, I’m afraid we would score a D-. It wasn’t for lack of trying on my part. I was 17, started late, and had an overabundance of hormones and a fair amount of curiosity. It was HIM. I could parade around in front of him completely in the buff, and not get an eyebrow lift. There were other parts of his anatomy that wasn’t getting a lift too, if you catch my drift.

My ex was a weight lifter, and I think that addled his organ. He would have rather hung out with his weight lifting buddies than play around with me, which was rather a change. My previous boyfriends, of which there were many, were all about sex. But like most stupid 17 year olds, I thought I could change him, just by the force of sheer will, charm and talent. I found out later that there wasn’t enough will, charm or talent on the planet to change that guy.

The other thing that began to gnaw at the back of my mind was his over-active imagination, code word: LYING. I found out during our Christmas visit to Connecticut that many of the things he told me in the six weeks before were either gross exaggerations or outright lies. For one thing, he told me he won several weight lifting competitions. LIE. He also told me that 1. he attended UConn, 2. he had three fast cars (thus converting my dad to his side), and 3. I was his first girlfriend. LIE, LIE and BIG FAT LIE. In fact, Number 3 lived right across the street from him. We shared more than a boyfriend. She also had my first name. Later on in this tale of woe, she befriends me, rats me out to the ex, and ends up marrying him. So his second wife had the same name as the first. Talk about creepy.

Of course, there were other hurdles that seemed endearing at first, but were hard to overcome. One was the huge Italian family. My ex alluded to Mafia ties (another LIE) and made it sound like I would be sleeping with the fishes if I didn’t toe the line. They were cool in a way, loud and boisterous, and not as dysfunctional as my own family. It was the first time I ate meals with a real cloth napkin, and also the first time I ate dinner in courses, with soup, salad and entree. At my house, dinner was a scramble to get the best piece of chicken before the younger sib did.

Ex’s Mama ruled the roost, but not her husband. He was one guy with roving eyes and hands. In fact, the neighbor girl with my first name told me that during the time the family was out in my state watching me get married to their son, Ex’s Dad, who decided to stay in Connecticut, was over at her house feeling her up. Eww… That tantalizing tidbit came out much later.

It wasn’t just this. I got the distinct impression that I was being used. It was already clear that he thought only of himself. He thought (very wrongly) that because I was of a certain ethnic persuasion, I should be subservient, like being a doormat is a genetic quirk. (HAH! As you know, I’m the farthest thing from it.) Later on, I thought maybe he picked me to marry was because he might be gay.

During our “engagement,” I turned 18 and so thought I was now an adult. In retrospect, I inherited the adult mess.

So, there was a bit of reluctance and some cold feet when going into this marriage. Our nuptials were scheduled for the chapel on base, by a Catholic priest (obviously, we were both Catholic). Since we were technically still in wartime, the priest waived the usually mandated premarital classes. Had we gone to the classes, I might have avoided a marriage of inconvenience and a first husband. (That’s how I dumped one of my fiances of the future.) My ex was soon scheduled to be transferred to Germany. Okay, it wasn’t Viet Nam, but they made an exception in our case.

Walking down the aisle, my father leaned over and whispered, “If you want to back out, now would be a good time to run.” Being a know-it-all teenager, I didn’t listen to him.

Damn stupid of me.

More later. This is a long and exhausting story!


6 Responses

  1. I was going to ask if he was gay. I guess he wasn’t.

  2. I don’t know, Wanda. I still think he’s gay.

  3. Sounds kinda gay to me, really. Or perhaps just under-sexed.

    I can’t even imagine being married at such a young age. I don’t know how you survived it. Looking forward to the rest of the story.

  4. I bet it was steroids that killed his wee-wee.

  5. Yep, sounds gay to me, too.

    This story makes me EXTREMELY thankful that I didn’t say ‘yes’ to the first guy who asked me to marry him. I was 18 and I loved him (and the sex was great) but, good lord, I’d have driven him to drink within a year, poor guy.

  6. It’s hard to tell an 18 year old full of hormones what to do. My own daughter is now 18 and I can’t imagine her being married at all. She’s far and away more immature than I was at that age.

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