One of my dear friends suggested I start blogging about my life. She, at least, finds it juicy and captivating -- not so sure about that but what the heck. In 23 days I will turn the corner on 50 years old. None of my other milestone birthdays have affected me the way this one is. When I turned 30 I was divorced and thrilled to be out of my 20s -- I celebrated for a whole week. 40 was a non-event; I had lost a bunch of weight, was remarried, and my mother-in-law had passed away just a few weeks before my birthday. My husband was grieving so a birthday celebration was not really in order. But, 5o? That's a horse of a different color, as they say.
Perhaps a little background would be helpful. I am the youngest of 11 children in a Mexican-American family. Eight girls, three boys. My parents were both born in Leon, Guanajuato, Mexico and emigrated to the U.S. in the early 20th century. They became citizens and raised a family in Los Angeles and Pasadena. I grew up in the hills of northeast Pasadena in a white, middle class, neighborhood. I attended Catholic grammar school from 1st to 8th grade, then Pasadena High and, ultimately, UCLA. I couldn't wait to get out of L.A. and moved to the SF Bay Area in 1984.
I had a great time in high school and took full advantage of all that a large public high school can offer -- I sang in the choir, I acted in the school musicals, I was on the pep squad. I was a good student and was accepted to UCLA as a senior. However, it would be three years before I would attend (largely because of really bad advice from my high school counselor).
My parents were two generations older than me and that created a lot of tension between us. They were old school and didn't understand a typical American teenager. As a result, they were very strict and I was very rebellious. So typical it's boring actually. I had a few boyfriends in high school, but in my senior year I fell in love married him seven years later - that was my first husband. I'll call him Justin. Many years later I would tell a friend that I was addicted to Justin -- hard as I might try, I could not get away from him.
After high school and prior to attending UCLA, I moved to Reno for a year. That one year changed me significantly. I met someone there whom I dated for six months. I'll call him Paul. Paul gave me back my self esteem -- his love, respect, and admiration put me back on my feet and convinced me to return to L.A. and enroll at UCLA, which I did in 1980. Unfortunately, it also meant that I dumped him and broke his heart - returning to Justin.
Four years later, and about to graduate from UCLA with a degree in History and a mediocre gpa, Paul called. I was still with Justin but was convinced that we were going to break up for the fourth and final time. We were both graduating from UCLA and he was heading off to law school in San Francisco. I was determined to leave LA but not sure where I would go -- north was all I knew for sure and I was considering Portland, OR or Seattle, WA. Then, Paul called.
We started talking again, a lot. It was so great to be in touch with him again. The connection we had was unlike any other and he had been able to forgive me for hurting him back in Reno. He had married and divorced and was single. He wanted me to come visit him that summer in the midwest. I told him I would. Then, Justin asked me to marry him.
Justin and I had been together for seven years at that point and had broken up and reunited three times. Each time, I was the one who would leave and each time I was the one who would return. Justin was like a bad drug -- even though it was bad for me, I couldn't stop using. I waited 24 hours before I gave him my answer, and then I accepted his proposal using this twisted logic: better the devil you know than the devil you don't. I loved his parents and I didn't want to be a single woman my whole life. I thought that marriage would change him and he would be the man I wanted and needed. Um, yeah, that didn't happen.
So, I had to tell Paul that I was going to marry Justin and would not be coming out to see him. Broke his heart for the second time. He was justifiably very angry and hurt.
More later...
