To say I’m a ‘money man’ is a tragic understatement. Not because I have a great deal of the stuff, you understand, but because I’m quite good at doing with what little I possess. This wasn’t always so. I received a trifling of financial advice from my parents and during high school I chose a dead language over learning to balance a checkbook.
This admission may come as a surprise for some – I don’t have a good relationship with the ex. One might think it would be better after a decade and our interwoven lives would be easing peacefully down their separate paths – this is not the case.
I chose it for the right reasons. It was close enough to my children but far enough from their mother. I would never mow a lawn or lay pine straw again. The rich onyx of the granite and doors gave off a masculine vibe sorely lacking in the others. But most important of all perhaps, it was new – symbolic of the life I was to begin.
It was January ’89 and I had just completed a tumultuous week of fraternity hell sealed by oath to never reveal what happened. After twelve final hours, aptly named Hell Night, of what I sometimes thought would be my death, the chaos ended in a drunken salutation that my blindfolded, beer soaked, humiliated pledge brothers and I were no longer toilet scum but members fraternally bonded in brotherhood.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. 1 Corinthians 13 4-7
My separation and divorce wouldn’t make for great television. We were off a hundred or so dollars in child support, a point on which I finally caved. The legal fees would cost more than winning the compromise. She and I divvied the furniture, pictures, and Tupperware with little friction.