The kids are happy and healthy, I love my job, I’m enjoying PA even more than I thought I would, and I’m not fighting with my significant other. Matter of fact, we’ve haven’t fought about anything yet, not even a disagreement… Hell, not even the pre-planned “Corn Battle.”

Wait… did you catch that? Significant other? Yep, there’s a boy. And after getting scolded at HFW for not telling a friend ["I had to figure it out on my own, damn you!" followed by "Oh, I'm so happy about this!!"], I need to come clean before I go any further. And if you think we should have told you in person, I apologize for both of us—we have a large network of friends and without a checklist we were going to fail on that front.

Previously referred to as “what do I call the boyfriend if I’m too old to use the term boyfriend?” or simply “the boy,” you may have heard of him. He goes by a few names. In my posts, it’s usually The Hippie. *gasp* Yes, Bob and I are dating [living together even]. Because sometimes the thing you need most is right in front of you—and if you fail to see it, the universe will slap you upside the head. [And just to prevent the planet from asking: it happened after my divorce was final and his separation was underway. It had nothing to do with either divorce, in fact, we both tried to stop the other from having to go through that and were then there for them as a friend when it became inevitable. Irony. I know.] We stumbled upon the idea—or rather, got slapped by the universe—looked at the logic, studied the possibilities, and talked for hours about something that had never occurred to either of us [though we've since learned that many of our friends saw what we didn't, go figure!]. Why not give it a shot, right? We’re best friends. We know each other very well, we’ve heard the other complain enough to know what not to do, we think alike, have similar interests, etc. Okay. After all, “we aren’t seventeen anymore”, as Bob said, “we’re adults with scar tissue, and if it doesn’t work we’ll still be best friends.” And for the first time in my life, I look forward to my day on a whole. I wake up to a smile that’s just for me, I go to a job that I adore, I come home to a house full of joy, and I fall asleep to the most comforting sound in the world—the heartbeat of my best friend.

I love my life. I live closer to all my friends, I have the greatest boss a girl could ask for, my house is full of insanity and laughter, and I’m treasured for no good reason. But, where was I? Because we all know my blogs traditionally go a little deeper than happy happy joy joy. Oh yeah…

Off and on throughout the summer, as I pondered this bliss that took me 40 years to find, I often caught myself holding my breath. I was waiting for the fights that interrupt happiness, because that’s what I’ve come to expect. I was waiting for the stress of life to come home and kick the dog, because that’s what I’d come to believe was normal. I incorrectly warped deep-thought expressions into “oh crap, what did I do?” And I held back, a lot, unsure if the unleashed, full-version of every day me, as opposed to 3 days at a time for weekend/con visit, would be too much. Afraid to scare or push away or in some unnamed way ruin what seemed effortlessly perfect.

I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. And I was wrong. There is no shoe.

The world isn’t always full of what you expect, what you warp, or what you think is normal. And the pain of failing at marriage isn’t the end of the world… hell, it’s the beginning of a new one, with or without a new heartbeat. “I’m done with men. I’m not dating, I’m not interested, I don’t want them in my life, my wallet, my mind, my decisions… period,” was spoken through tears, based in pain, and simply the mortar for a wall that wasn’t necessary [Speaking of irony, I half-sobbed half-screamed that statement to Bob of all people]. If death isn’t the end, divorce isn’t even close to it [or a breakup of any kind or even just a bad relationship in the past]. So for anyone out there that thinks they’re too old to start over, or hurt too much to try again, or just feel empty and unsure and are mixing mortar to protect themselves—yes, I’m looking at two of you in particular—stop.

Stop now.

POP lists aren’t necessarily ridiculous. Fairy tales aren’t always make-believe. And life doesn’t begin at 30 or 40 or 50 or whenever the new buzz campaign has declared. It begins when you want it to, or when the universe slaps you into realizing it’s started without you. There is no shoe, and no reason to live your life afraid or nervous or mixing mortar. There is laughter and happiness and possibilities that have no bounds… and if you think for one moment that you can’t have it, you’d better have good health insurance, because the universe has a brutal left hook!