I Chased a Fairy Tale

I Chased a Fairy Tale

I chased a fairy tale

a love that could never be

a fantasy

I chased a fairy tale

to naive to see

the fallacy

I chased a fairy tale

a notion meant to deceive

all make believe

I chased a fairy tale

love's longevity not to be

failure guaranteed


I chased a fairy tale

until it caught me

then I could see

the insanity

                                       -- carol mayer 4/14/15

Good Intentions

This is a continuation in a series of stories that tell about a backpack trip to Europe (and back) in the spring of 1976 by myself in an effort to run away from the pain of a broken heart. (To read from the beginning Google "The Ramblings of an Aging Baby Boomer" go to March 27, 2015, "I'll Never Find Love Again").

I was living a lie. Bolstered by the belief that women are inherently weak and need a strong man to protect and take care of them, I played the role for many years of a damsel needing rescued.  I thought of myself as Cinderella--a really good girl who was sweet and humble and polite and accommodating and hardworking and unassuming, but unable, by herself, to make it in life without a man (a prince) by her side.

When Uncle Jimmy held me on his knees, called me a princess, and said "Boys like girls who are sugar and spice and everything nice," he was simply expressing affection and love. When Aunt Gracie read fairy tales to my sister and me every night, while my mother slept her grief away in the next bedroom, she was just being a good aunt to her nieces. Both my aunt and uncle's intentions were good.

When the authors of the fairy tales and the romance novels and the soap operas and the Hollywood love stories were writing their stories about love and romance, they would have been confused and dismayed if they were accused of having bad intentions. Writers are artists expressing their creativity with words.

When Marabel Morgan conceived of the idea to write a book, The Total Woman, in 1974, that would help women save their marriages and keep their husbands happy, her intentions were good.

When my fiancé bought me her book a month before our wedding in 1975, he just wanted to provide me with a manual on how to be the wife he wanted me to be. His intentions, albeit self-serving, were not bad.

When you combine all of the parts and pieces that make up the whole of who I was as a young woman looking for love, it makes perfect sense that I would be a fairy tale junkie. The good news is I saw the lie and discovered the truth before it was too late to know what true love really means.

Recently, I purchased The Total Woman. (I seem to have misplaced the one my fiancé bought me in 1975.) I wanted to read it again before I wrote about it in my blog. Here is my review on Amazon:

Forty-years ago, I was given this book by my fiancé. He was using Marabel Morgan as a spokesperson for him and for what he expected in a wife. Since I had a Cinderella Complex already--waiting to be rescued by Prince Charming--I didn't object to the basic theme of her book: submit, serve, obey, and have lots of sex...at first.  But as time went on, he became his own spokesperson. We weren't even married yet, and I was not even coming close to meeting his expectations. I tried but I failed and the engagement ended.

I just reread The Total Woman. I wasn't that far along into the book before I wanted to throw it out the window, take it out back and burn it, stomp on it...anything to vent my anger. But, instead I kept reading, and then I realized something. The inspiration, motivation, and passion behind this book was for a good reason: helping couples save their marriages. With biblical direction and Christian, family values, Ms. Morgan wrote a comprehensive how-to book, which, over the years, has saved and enriched many marriages--marriages that were headed to divorce court.

I'm only going to comment on the parts of her book that I like--things in any relationship that are important for it to be healthy, rewarding, long-lasting, and of course, happy.

Page 38:  "Do you know that your personal happiness depends on the attitude you decide you will have?"

Page 50:  "A man needs to be accepted as he is..." and "I need to feel accepted, too."

Page 58:  "...respect, honor, esteem, adore, praise, enjoy, and admire."

I'm skipping over the sex part. Not going to comment on "sexual intercourse every night of the week," or "spray your sheets with sweet cologne," or the part about greeting him at the door naked and wrapped in Saran wrap or pink baby-doll outfits and fuzzy boots or the part about having sex pretending to be "a pixie or a pirate, a cowgirl or a show girl." Nope! Not going there. Everyone knows that sex is important in a marriage no matter what you're wearing, or not.

Page 133:  "A woman expresses her love by words and expects words in return. A man expresses his love by actions... ." And "Understanding the one you live with and love with gives such freedom." And "A husband and wife must communicate if they hope to understand each other. There is no greater feeling than knowing you are understood."

Page 134: "Be a good listener."

Page 136: "Don't criticize or put him down." Of course, that's a two-way street.

Page 138: "Be sensitive to his moods." Ditto on what I said above.

Page 139: "Be interested in his interests." This is good as long as it's not disingenuous and short-lived.

Page 142: "Before you speak, think the problem through and put it into its proper perspective. An angry outburst can scar your husband's emotions and create barriers between you."

It's important to note that Marabel Morgan is writing this book for women. It's instructions on how to keep your man happy so he won't stray and do the nasty-nasty with the bimbo at the office. She also has a chapter or two on how to raise well-adjusted and happy children.

I can only thank Ms. Morgan, because if it  had not been for The Total Woman (I could never, ever be that woman, by the way) I would have married the wrong man for me. It took several attempts at love--I had to realize that I didn't need rescuing; I am a smart, independent, capable woman. I eventually got it right. I have won the "Best Mate Lotto." Life is wonderful and, thank goodness, I don't have to wear that pirate outfit any more.

Tomorrow's Post: I Chased a Fairy Tale

Fairy Tale Junkie

This is a continuation in a series of stories that tell about a backpack trip to Europe (and back) in the spring of 1976 by myself in an effort to run away from the pain of a broken heart. (To read from the beginning Google "The Ramblings of an Aging Baby Boomer" go to March 27, 2015, "I'll Never Find Love Again").

I am a fairy tale junkie, or at least I used to be; I broke the habit in my early fifties. I'll be seventy in August. In June of this year, I will celebrate being fairy-tale free for nineteen years. But when did the addiction to desperately-seeking-happily-ever-after with Prince Charming begin, and how was I able to break the habit? In order to break free, I needed to go back to when it all started. I had to meticulously pull back layer upon layer of innocence, naivety, delusions, deception, lies and lastly good intentions to get to the truth. It was difficult and painful--and I backslid more than a few times--but if I was going to be the person I was intended to be...the real me...the person who makes me complete and whole...the person...the woman who is happy with herself and her life, then I had to do it.

INNOCENCE & NAIVETY

"Sugar and spice and everything nice." That's what I was supposed to be. Uncle Jimmy told me that over and over when I, as a two-year-old, sat on his lap embracing his affection. My father had abandoned my mother, sister and me on the day I was born, because, well, he had found his true love, and it wasn't my mother. Oops! Made a mistake. Bye, bye. So long. Adios. Have a nice life. So now my new daddy was Uncle Jimmy and Uncle Jimmy said I must be "sugar and spice and everything nice."

My mother had lost her prince charming. She slept a lot. When she was awake, she cried a lot. How could she possibly go on without him? she asked. Jimmy's wife, Aunt Gracie, took care of her and me and my five-year-old sister, Judy. She read to Judy and me every night before we went to sleep. One of her favorite stories was Sleeping Beauty.

"Within the castle lies a beautiful princess who is doomed to sleep for a hundred years until a king's son (Prince Charming) comes and awaken her. The prince then braves the tall trees, brambles and thorns...and enters the castle. He passes the sleeping castle folk and comes across the chamber where the Princess lies asleep on the bed. Struck by the radiant beauty before him, he falls on his knees before her. The enchantment comes to an end by a kiss and the princess awakens and..."

Every night it was a different fairy tale. Meanwhile, in the next bedroom was another sleeping beauty: my mother. After the prince kissed her and did a few other things to her, he left her. Shhhhh....it's a secret. He doesn't want any of the castle folk to know he's made a mistake, so can you keep a secret?

I believed in the fables. I was sugar and spice and everything nice. I was a princess. Uncle Jimmy told me so. "Little boys like sweet little princesses," he said. But there was just one itty bitty problem. I was an ugly little princess. It wasn't my fault though. The facial deformity was nature's gift, and there was no money for surgery to fix nature's mistake--I mean gift--so the only thing left to do was pray for a miracle and take no pictures. Bless her sweet little heart. 

While sleeping beauty was mourning the loss of her prince in the next bedroom, my aunt read us the story about another unattractive, less fortunate young lady who, even though she wasn't as beautiful as her competition--I mean step-sisters--won the heart of the prince:  Cinderella. See, there's still hope for Carol Louise. 

DELUSIONS

It was a miracle. I outgrew the deformity, but not the ugly. Everything a girl needed in the 1950's and first half of the 60's to be considered pretty, I lacked. However, I did have the following: coke-bottle glasses, buckteeth, turned-up nose, pimples, baby-fine hair, flat chest, skinny legs, and pencil-thin body. How in the world would I ever get the prince to notice me in this condition? "The" most important thing necessary to win a prince, I was lacking: Beauty. Even Cinderella, underneath the rags and dirt, turned out to be beautiful.

I immersed myself in romance novels.  If I couldn't have the prince in real life, then I would have him in my fantasies. Story after story told of a beautiful, demure, soft-spoken, sweet damsel winning the heart of a handsome, strong, controlling but loving man. The underlying theme was weak (woman) rescued by strong (man). This would become my story, my quest: Sugar-and-spice-and-everything-nice maiden seeking Prince Charming to rescue her.

DECEPTION & LIES

Innocence, naivety, and delusions met deception and lies in my early twenties. Hollywood love stories and soap operas mixed with fairy tales and romance novels and my need to be rescued--validated--by a prince was solidified.

Soon after graduating from high school, I left ugly behind and picked up cute. I wouldn't be so confident to use that word myself, because once ugly, in my mind, always ugly. "Cute" was a word my first boyfriend, Jack (not his real name) used to describe me. He also joked about my skinny legs, turned-up nose, and my sister Lynnette's big feet. He was a real funny guy. She didn't like him; I fell in love with him. My first love. He met all of the criteria on my prince list: handsome, strong, a man's man, someone in control who was able and willing to rescue and take care of his maiden: me.

Two years into our relationship, I inquired about marriage. "Any thoughts on when we might get married?" I asked. "When and if I get married, I'll be the one doing the asking," was his response. "The man does the asking," he followed up, just in case I needed an explanation. The years clicked by: three, four, five. While I was being sugar and spice and everything nice and waiting patiently for a proposal, I discovered an itty, bitty secret about my prince. A dash of deception. A sprinkling of lies. A cache of secrets. But he was my prince, after all, and so I waited and waited and waited some more...six, seven, eight, nine years, until...

OCTOBER, 1974

I was just standing out in the maiden meadow one day picking dead flowers, minding my own business, when off in the distance I heard a noise. At first I thought nothing of it. Then I saw it. It trotted majestically out of the woods. So big. So amazing. It took my breath away. A huge white horse. On the mount sat a knight wearing armor that glittered in the sun. The horse stopped a few feet away from me. From Me! Me! The ugly one. Oh, wait! The cute one.

I'd had a prince already--going on ten years--when the horse trotted out of the woods with a man covered from head to toe in shiny metal. When he lifted his face shield, I knew right then I could live a thousand years and never lay eyes on a man more beautiful. He met all of the criteria on my prince list, and so I let him lift me up--he was so strong--onto the horse, and the three of us trotted away. Oh, wait! There was just one itty bitty detail that I had to deal with before running off into the sunset with Prince #2: Prince #1. That would be Jack.

A week after I met Prince #2, Jack got down on one knee, professed his undying love, handed me an empty ring case,* and asked me to marry him--nine years and one week too late. I had fallen hard for my second prince. The tall, blonde, handsome, man's man football star from southern Indiana called me his sweet little princess. He liked to hold me on his lap, just like my uncle had done all those many years before. The engagement ring was beautiful; the wedding date was set--all within a couple of months.

Jack did not take kindly to the events that were unfolding before his very jealous eyes. He followed my prince and me on our dates; he sent flowers and cards professing his love; he scratched on my bedroom window in the wee hours of the morning so we could discuss once more why I was breaking up with him; he said he couldn't go on without me; he promised me that if I went through with the wedding he would come to the church, stand in the balcony, and scream at the top of his lungs.

My new prince did not take kindly to the events that were unfolding before his very beautiful, big blue eyes. He wanted to plummet Jack, but he honored my wishes to not harm this man who was suffering from a broken heart.

My knight gave me a book entitled The Total Woman, written by Marabel Morgan (a former beauty queen). It told about how a woman can keep her man: surrender her life to him, revere and worship and serve him, fulfill his every whim, and he will adore you and never leave you for that bimbo at the office.

My new love wanted me to stay home, have children, and be a housewife. In turn, he would be my protector, take care of me, and love me forever. He instructed me on the difference between women's work and men's work. Simply stated, anything inside the home was women's work; anything outside was man's work. But when I made a fire in the fireplace, he admonished me for doing a man's job. But wait! It's inside.

When the love of my life said he preferred I wear a one-piece bathing suit instead of my favorite bikini, I said, "I can do that." When he told me he didn't want me to have any men friends--even platonic--because it wouldn't look good to family and friends, I said, "I can do that." When he said, "As your husband I want you to accept that I know what is best for you," I said, "Uh..uh...uh...I think I can do that."

August 16, 1975, THE WEDDING

The fairy tale wedding on Saturday, August 16th, was growing closer and closer. Only ten days away. Invitations sent out? Check. RSVP's counted? Check. Church reserved? Check. Catering confirmed? Check. Wedding dress? Check. Flowers ordered? "Uh...uh...I'll get on that right away," I said to my aunt Gracie, who was my bridal coordinator.  I got in my little yellow VW bug and drove to the flower shop, walked around inside for a couple of minutes, and then left. My bug and I headed out of town, and all the while I was screaming at the top of my lungs, "I CAN'T DO THAT!"

But wait! He was the love of my life. My prince charming. My knight covered in all that heavy metal. I guess I can do what he wants me to do. I'm his sweet little princess. He loves me. He will take care of me. Protect me. What more could I possibly want? Yes, I can do this.

NO, I CAN'T!

Yes, I can.

NO, I CAN'T!

Yes, I can.

Yes, I can.

Yes I can.

My parents' living room was full of wedding presents. The wedding was in two days, and my little bug and I were no where to be found. We had run again...for the third time in ten days.

I just couldn't do it.

*The ring box was empty because when Jack came to my apartment unannounced to ask me to marry him, he discovered that I had company, so there was only one logical thing to do. He threw my engagement ring across the parking lot, never to be found. 

Tomorrow's post: Good Intentions

Can I Ever Laugh Again, Love Again, Live Again

This is one story in a series of stories that tell about a backpack trip to Europe (and back) in the spring of 1976 by myself in an effort to run away from the pain of a broken heart. (To read from the beginning Google "The Ramblings of an Aging Baby Boomer" go to March 27, 2015, "I'll Never Find Love Again").

Tuesday, April 27, 1976 (In bed)

It's been a week since I left Luxembourg. I flew into New York and Mike and Lili picked me up at the airport. I stayed the night at their apartment, and the next morning I left for home. I bypassed Indy and drove straight to Evansville. It took me about 16-18 hours. I just had to know the answer. Did he no longer love me? Did he no longer want me?

I knocked on his door. I was trembling. As soon as he opened the door, I knew. He didn't grab me, hold on to me, hug me like he meant it, and say "I missed you so much. You are too dear to me, too precious for me to let you go." He stood stone still just inside the door; the answer was on his unsmiling face.

"Please, can I have another chance?" I said.  I wanted to say so much more. "I was confused. I love you more than anything. I know that now. It's you I want. If we set another wedding date, I promise I will go through with it. I won't back out." But I didn't say any of those things. I could tell it was useless. The answer was what I expected. "It's too late," he said and closed the door. I sobbed all the way back to Jack's house. He was very comforting. Then I came home. I took some of Mother's Valium and have been in bed ever since.

He does not want me any longer. Not only does he not want me, now he never, ever wants to see me again. I try desperately to understand how I could mean so little to him that he doesn't even care to see me again. Even passing acquaintances want to see one another occasionally. I don't understand. I don't see how I can continue on. I am a strong person and I can do anything I want, but the truth is I don't want to go on without him. How can I ever laugh again, love again, or live again.

THIRTY-NINE YEARS LATER

Monday, April 27, 2015

I just want to take a brief pause from telling my story, about losing the one and only love of my life and thinking my life was over,  to wish my son, Jason,  Happy Birthday.  He turns thirty-four-years-old today.

Jason, you are an amazing young man; you have surpassed

the highest expectations a mother could ever have for her child.

I love you more than words can express. You own my heart.

 Tomorrow's post: Fairy Tale Junkie

Back at Jack's

This is one story in a series of stories that tell about a backpack trip to Europe in the spring of 1976 by myself in an effort to run away from the pain of a broken heart. (To read from the beginning Google "The Ramblings of an Aging Baby Boomer" and go back to March 27th "I'll Never Find Love Again.")

Thursday, April 22, 1976, Indy

Back at Jack's.

He Wasn't There

This is one story in a series of stories that tell about a backpack trip to Europe in the spring of 1976 by myself in an effort to run away from the pain of a broken heart. (To read from the beginning Google "The Ramblings of an Aging Baby Boomer" and go back to March 27th "I'll Never Find Love Again.")

Wednesday night, April 21, 1976,  New York City

He wasn't there.

Somewhere Over the Ocean--Going Home

This is one story in a series of stories that tell about a backpack trip to Europe in the spring of 1976 by myself in an effort to run away from the pain of a broken heart. (To read from the beginning Google "The Ramblings of an Aging Baby Boomer" and go back to March 27th "I'll Never Find Love Again.")

Tuesday, April 20, 1976 (On the plane back home)

On the airplane, finally. Somewhere over the ocean. I'm going home.

Last night was a restless night. I kept waking up to look at my watch. I'd have short panic episodes thinking my watch had stopped and I was missing my plane, but then I'd realize that I wasn't leaving until this afternoon.  The night was long: Anticipating going back home. Anxious about what I would find when I got there.

I had the most wonderful, but at times scary dream all night long.  Each time I woke up to realize it was only a dream, I would try to make myself go back to sleep so it would continue. I was hoping for a happy ending.

He was waiting for me at Kennedy airport. This man whom I thought I had lost forever was standing at the gate waiting for me. I was stunned when I saw him there. He grabbed on to me and both of us hugged like we meant it. He was crying when he said that during my absence, he had missed me. He loved me so much. I was too dear, too precious to him to let me go.

Jack was at the airport, too. But he kept changing back and forth from Jack, the little boy, to Jack, the grown man. Jack, the boy, jumped out from behind a post and starting walking beside me. He mimicked my walking by keeping step with me. I panicked. Oh, no. What was he going to do this time? What manipulative thing did he have up his sleeve to ruin this moment. I had been given another chance. I hadn't lost the love of my life after all. Jack was going to mess with my mind again. This could turn out bad.

Jack, the boy, was walking along side us as we were leaving the airport. He had a huge grin on his face. What is going on? I wondered. I pretended as if I didn't see him. He was up to something. He would disappear for awhile, then reappear. I had to ignore him. (It was when I was trying to ignore Jack when I would wake up. I needed to get back to sleep, back to the dream. I had to get past Jack or else I would do something foolish and lose him again.)

Jack, the man, was in the car with us, but only I knew it. He was in the backseat; the mischievous, up-to-something grin was gone, and he was leaning forward between the passenger and driver's seat. He was acting like a normal, well-adjusted man--not a man who was desperate and would do anything to get his lost love back. He said that he was letting me go. He could see now that I was in love with someone else. He wanted me to be happy. So he was going to back off and stop harassing me, stop following me, stop manipulating me. If there was another wedding date set, he would not come to the church, stand in the balcony, and yell at the top of his lungs. That was a promise.

When I got up this morning, I felt so good. Hunger pains were gone. My back didn't hurt. For the first time on this trip, I have a positive feeling about my future. Maybe he did miss me. How can someone fall out of love so fast? I've only been gone a month. I want to believe he'll give me another chance. What if he is waiting for me at the airport? It could happen. I'm holding on to hope that he'll be there. I won't blow it this time. I won't back out next time. I will never run away again. That is a promise.