OFF WE GO...

All stories have to start somewhere. My story starts here, at the great divide.

It happened while we were on vacation—and not just any vacation, but one designed to be the best vacation of my life. The destination was the South of France. I even sprang for first-class sleeping pods.

A longtime customer and friend provided a villa for ten days for me and several friends, and it was very close to the Riviera.

I planned this vacation for two and a half months. The preparations included Monaco, the greatest name in Formula One racing, and Monte Carlo of James Bond fame. I even had two outfits and coats picked out for that part of the trip.

I also planned another day, as recommended by my friend, that would include wine tasting and e-biking on an island off the Riviera coast. Then came the coup de grâce: Saint-Tropez, the playground of the rich and famous.

It took a month just to prepare for that part. I had been so pale for so long that it took two spray tans to look the part. Then came the clothes—white everything. White beach pants, white Levi's, white beach shirts with silk designs, and of course, a real Panama hat.

So, off we go—vacation.

 

THE UNRAVELING

Being the one supplying the villa, I thought this venture was somewhat my gig.

Ellen rented a cheap car that surprisingly died fifty miles into our first trip, so now we were down to two cars for six people.

I wanted to simply rent another car and get moving, but she insisted on spending the rest of the day demanding that the rental company send us another vehicle immediately—which, of course, never happened.

I also reported my credit card stolen because I did not trust the rental company not to charge me for the car problems. We were not in the United States anymore.

At this point, I no longer had a car or access to funds, but no big deal, I thought. My wife of many years had our credit card—or so I thought.

I became the guy in the back seat.

 

We got close enough to Monaco to see the street signs, but the group hijacked my plans and went to a tourist attraction closer to us. So, no Monaco for Jimmy! No Formula One! No Monte Carlo!

The island excursion on the Riviera turned into an equal disappointment. I had just enough time for half a pour of French wine before she and the group left to catch the return boat to the coast. They would not join me for even a minute, choosing instead to chase tourist trinkets on a side street.

So, no afternoon on the island for Jimmy. Later in the week, it was finally time for my main event: Saint-Tropez.

I was as giddy as a kid going to Disneyland. I had prepared the night before and had my beach towels out and ready to go when "it" happened.

My wife of many years grabbed the towels away from me while hissing loudly in my face: "You are NOT going to Saint-Tropez!" I was dumbfounded. Speechless.

Nobody in the group—now down to four people—especially my wife, seemed to care what I had come to see.

Fifteen years of marriage, and it appeared to matter very little. To anyone. All my plans, all the expense, and all the preparation—gone. Wow.

My greatest vacation ever.

And on top of that, after blowing me off, they went to another tourist attraction across the bay from Saint- Tropez.

You could actually see Saint-Tropez from there. At that point, I started to boil. The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. Fueled by testosterone, my hair felt like it was on fire.

 

I was hurt. I was angry. And I made sure everyone in the house knew exactly what I thought. I rattled the windows. Looking back, I knew in that moment that divorce was on the table. This was my World Trade Center moment—everything collapsing before my eyes.

 

THE FROSTING ON THE CAKE

I add this section for those who may think that thoughts of divorce were an overreaction to a bad day or two.

Two days after the blowup, "E" and I returned to the rental company where the car had failed on the first day.

Their promise to send a replacement vehicle within forty-five minutes had become a cruel joke.

We completed all the paperwork and headed for the exit gate. Once again, however, this required us to work together.

She gave me the wrong gate code while other cars lined up behind us.

We argued bitterly about who was at fault.

She stormed back to the rental office and returned with another code.

This time, I held the number in my hand while entering it into the keypad. The video screen confirmed the numbers were correct.

Still, the gate did not open.

Again, she stormed back to the office, this time returning with an attendant who opened the gate with his access card.

Finally, we were off to meet the others who had driven ahead and were waiting for us elsewhere. They had given us directions by phone. We were told to follow the airport signs. I saw the sign at the end of the road and headed in that direction. Then "E" spotted a smaller airport sign and insisted we go that way instead. Again, we argued.

 

Again, I relented!

Again, we were wrong.

Moments later, we received a phone call informing us that we had turned the wrong way.

We turned around and headed back in the direction I had originally suggested.

"E" was now seething.

When we finally reached our friends, she practically ran from our vehicle to their van. They sent a calmer and more reasonable person back to ride with me.

At that point, I was certain the gods were laughing!

Just in case I might have believed this vacation was an isolated incident that I could simply "get over," life seemed determined to serve me another helping.

 

FEELINGS

Now let's return to ground zero. Let's return to those words of ignition: "You are NOT going to Saint-Tropez. "Think about the circumstances under which one adult says to another, "You are not going to ______." It is usually someone in authority demanding obedience.Someone saying, "I am in charge, and you will do as I say. "In our kitchen hangs a cute little sign that says: "I am not bossy. I just know what you should be doing." That might be cute in someone else's house. In ours, it was a rule of thumb. Years ago, I probably would have shrugged off Saint-Tropez as simply the cost of being married. But that was yesterday. Yesterday is gone.

 

I have been running successful businesses for fifteen years. 

"Step and fetch" is not a business plan. 

And step-and-fetch has officially left the building. 

I imagine the average reader saying: 

"Okay, so you went on a vacation and it was terrible. Big deal. Get over it." 

Fair enough. Why make any of this public? I never intended to.

This writing began as therapy.

Several respected friends advised me to keep a journal because situations like this can seem complicated and uncontrollable when emotions are running high!

Writing things down helped me separate facts from emotions. It also helped me answer a simple question: What the hell happened? This is not the kind of thing that can be explained with a casual "Oh, by the way..." conversation. It requires context.

 

CONCLUSION

We later traveled to a friend's house north of Los Angeles. Nobody hates Los Angeles traffic more than I do.

I found an alternate route that completely avoided the city. It was about thirty miles longer, but the time savings would more than make up for the extra distance.

"E" wanted to drive through Los Angeles. I disagreed and stood my ground.

 

She was not accustomed to me overriding her opinions and largely dismissed my suggestion until we reached the final Los Angeles exit.

Then all hell broke loose!

She became furious and began hitting me on the head with a map and her hands.

Meanwhile, our friend in the back seat panicked and recorded the entire incident on her phone.

The interesting part came later.

On the return trip, our friends arranged for another passenger to ride with us.

When I later asked why she came along, I was told it was to keep us from "killing each other."

That may have been an exaggeration. I have never raised a hand to Ellen.

However, I have certainly had to dodge and weave through more than a few verbal tirades.

By this point, we had become friendly adversaries.

We could not spend more than thirty minutes together in a car without a serious argument. Vacations had become impossible!

On our very first drive after returning from France, we did not even make it off our own street before arguing.

A large tree branch had fallen onto a neighbor's fence. I pointed it out. She insisted it was an entire tree. A screaming match followed.

Over a tree branch. That may sound absurd, but it had become our normal. I used to avoid confrontation. That changed. Part of it was France.

 

Part of it was testosterone therapy.

Either way, I no longer backed down from disagreements, large or small.

Ellen has many wonderful friends, and over the years I have become friends with several of them as well.

Two are clinical psychologists.

One once described Ellen as a "me," not a "we."

That observation has stayed with me.

I would add the words "hardwired" and "not reprogrammable."

In conversation, she often forms an opinion before hearing the entire story.

Interruptions are common.

Frequently, I had to repeat myself three or four times just to complete a thought.

Her most common response to almost any idea was a quick "no," followed immediately by an explanation of why it was wrong.

I do not believe she even realizes she does it. It is simply hardwired. One final example. I was brushing my teeth one morning—mouth full of toothpaste, water running, bent over the sink. She began speaking to me from across the room.

When I did not respond immediately, she became angry. There was no consideration for the fact that I was in the middle of brushing my teeth. The message was simple: Pay attention to me right now. There are countless examples like this. Listing them all would serve no purpose.

 

So I will stop here!

 

SIX MONTHS LATER

I began writing this six months ago, and time has provided perspective. Are we divorced? Not formally. But were we ever truly married in the traditional sense?

Not by a rabbi, priest, or pastor. We participated in a hybrid ceremony conducted by a member of a Jewish choir. Later, I conducted my own symbolic divorce ceremony. I held a tree branch and said: "This hand is me. This hand is you. The branch is our marriage. "Then I snapped the branch in half and threw the pieces over my shoulders. It was my version of the Jewish tradition of tearing one's clothing. I then said, "You can take that any way you want." So, are we divorced? I consider myself single and largely live accordingly. We share a roof. We share a kitchen. Beyond that, we lead separate lives. Separating our financial obligations remains a work in progress. Will I ever walk the beaches of Saint-Tropez? I do not know.

 

Everything is still up in the air. I remember years ago when her mother asked me to take care of her. At the time, it felt like a promise. Of course, I said yes. Today, that promise feels like a very thin thread. 

 

THE VIDEO BELOW IS WHAT I MISSED OUT ON! ... Finis