It's official

Despite the emotional upheaval of separation and divorce, from a purely practical standpoint, selling my home - a large but aging condo located in a desirable section of Los Angeles - has scared me more. Perhaps it's the fact that I know my ex and I are both reasonable people, and she's not going to try fucking me over, and I have proven again and again that I'm going to take the high road through all of this. 

But selling a condo in a down market, with all of that pent up fear that my home had come to represent, was crippling. It kept me from putting it on the market until after the holidays, and then this horrible, gut-wrenching process taking 12 weeks seemed to put me in an interminable limbo. Even though we found a buyer quickly, the daily uncertainty, the serpentine regulations was even more challenging than I envisioned the whole thing to be. I don't think I would've been able to handle it without L, who was just a complete buoy in so many ways. 

And today it's done. Kind of a Mozart Moment.

I no longer own property, and I now have a very large sum of money in my bank account. It's not large by Los Angeles standards, and the sad irony is that it's not even enough for me to go jump into another property if I wanted to (which I very much DON'T right now), but it's more money than I've ever personally had in my life. An interesting feeling, though also kind of a nervous one, because I want to kind of nurture that egg so it can be of greater use down the line. It's not something to crack open, though maybe I'll rub it a little bit here and there.

I can't even begin to express the relief I feel being on the other side of this. I am so colossally happy about everything right now, and most of it is because of L. Being on the other side of the house is just icing on the cake. Of course, I'd like to be on the other official side of the marriage too, but that feels trivial by comparison. Getting two people who philosophically agree on most things to sign a bunch of papers seems a lot less daunting than finding a total stranger in a colossally nightmarish economy to buy the home that often gave you nightmares for much of the last six years. Getting a divorce seems like a dance party in comparison. At the same time, as I told my brother, it's not high on my list of things to do right now. I feel like I just climbed a treacherous, ice-slicked mountain, and the last thing I feel like doing is strapping on some snowshoes. 

I'd rather relax, smile, be happy, be in love, and live. That sounds much better to me. And it feels just a little bit easier today.

The new view

I found myself home this weekend. In a building I've never lived in before. 

From the moment my separation went from undecided to permanent, the notion of selling our condo was a massive, looming crisis in my mind, representing many things: the removal of the pride of ownership; the emotional, physical and financial investment that went into it; the physical manifestation of my failures, and ours; the loss of the only home my son has ever known. Hanging over all of that was the increasingly fractured economy and the knowledge that we'd already lost 20% of the value of the home in 12 months. Putting off selling was a way to avoid the inevitable financial disappointment, even though the separation of our one primary asset was key to moving onward. 

Eventually, the passage of time and the unspoken calamity of my ex's financial problems pushed me into action, fearing the worst. The asking price, jarring. The market, depressing. Yet, we found a buyer in six days, close to our price. What a relief! 

Then the American banking system kicked in. Our well-heeled buyer couldn't get a loan with 5% down, unless we got our condo an FHA approval, which means that a government backed loan could be acquired. A two-week process formality, I was told. We'll still make the 30 day escrow, the realtor opined. What no one anticipated was that virtually every buyer in America (few though they may be) were trying to do the same thing. Run for cover under the patriarchal umbrella of the US Treasury. 2 weeks stretched to 4 and groaned into 6. The ex's financial calamity turning into a full-blown Katrina, as I help out in any way possible while trying to maintain a positive attitude and not hold it against her (which I successfully did).

Meanwhile, my transition period became an emotionally chaotic limbo. I had to search for places to live, but couldn't commit. A place I adored held out for me, but had to move on after 3 weeks, which felt like 3 years. The inventory of apartments turned completely over during a month. Nights on Westside Rentals and days on Craigslist led to information overload and apartment apathy. Everything came to look the same, everything felt stale. 

The only thing making it bearable was L. A constant fountain of positivity and support, I found myself wanting to include her in this process, and gaining her implicit approval of where I was going was niggling in the back of my mind. One of the things you lose with the end of a relationship is a sense of perspective. Even if you have relatively good taste (mine isn't impeccable, but it's generally solid in most things), when you find yourself alone, faced with all those decisions, there's a gnawing sense of inadequacy and fear - if I can't hold a relationship together, can I really decide what I should be having for dinner, much less where I should live, where I should raise my child? And schools, overpriced rents, geographic enclaves of the westside... it all felt overwhelming. Even as I feel more content and secure in my life, there's that slight scent of fear behind your plastered smile of confidence. 

Having L go through this with me was both empowering, and also a romantic ritual in which we were gauging each other in unique ways that gave each of us perspective in how we see the world and our places in it. Her insight was invaluable, and to walk into a standard-issue Santa Monica apartment and put myself in the shoes of, "well, I could make this work..." and have her look at me and shake her head - "no way" - was such a clear, demonstrable demonstration of confidence and faith that it made me adore her all the more. We were learning each other's tastes and preferences, which is both illuminating and also important. Crucially, we were finding that we have very similar perspectives on many, many things. As crunch time neared, and I had to view a key property without her, it felt as if I had only seen it with one eye.

Because, deep down, I know there is something special and intense taking place, and wherever I find myself has to be a place that is emotionally expansive. It needs to satisfy me, and Zach, of course. But there's this new influence in my life, one of exceptional taste and grace and competence, and that place needs to fit those emotions and perspectives.

I finally got the call that took 8 weeks - the approval came in. GO!

I race to choose where to live, but at that point, there was only one contender in El Segundo, a very unique 3 bedroom that happened to be in the middle of a parking lot, and a new entry in Mar Vista, that seemed intriguing. A week prior, Mar Vista and it's shitty school system wasn't even on the map, but Zach's presumed acceptance into a charter school nearby removed the geographic limitations that I'd faced. A tasteful two bedroom condo in a quiet, relatively upscale community with a pool and a hot tub. Big rooms, giant closets, and a strong, confident color palette on the walls. Though it wasn't in El Segundo, it stacked up over the Parking Lot. I chose it, and then endured 48 hours of the landlord deciding whether it should be me living in her property. As a homeowner myself, I think I understand the grappling. 

My landlord mojo held true, and I got the place. Literally 24 hours later I was moving in a blitzkrieg of energy that lasted for 3 straight, exhausting days. One alone, one with energetic friends and hired movers, and one with L and her sense of style, unending helpfulness, and an uniquely OCD sense of organization (I always felt I was an 7 on the organized scale, but she's well past a 10). 

But a funny thing happened on that first day of the move. The moment I carried in those first boxes of belongings, all alone, I felt a funny, funny feeling. 

I was home. 

A home that I didn't own, but one in which I felt liberated. One in which I felt my life was starting over in an open, honest and meaningful way. Full of potential and opportunity, and a new love that I can only pray never dies. During the entire move, I couldn't stop driving myself, pushing myself, because I wanted to get it done, get it finished, but also, I wanted everyone out so that I could bring L in and have her feel that same sense. 

And she did. There's something absolutely electric, and yet utterly calming, between us, where we both somehow understand what all this means, and what it could be. We sat in the hot tub together, relaxing after an exhausting day of moving, and it was pure perfection. In the four days since I've moved, I haven't thought about my own condo once, aside from the irritating, major detail that we haven't yet been paid for it - and won't be until next week. I put so much time and effort into turning that condo into my home, but it had become as dead to me as the relationship within it. People frequently asked me how I feel about selling, and today, I can only smile, and in all genuineness say that I feel great about the whole thing. 

I feel reborn in this new home of mine, and to have Zach tell me that he wants to "live here for the rest of my life until I die" only confirms that my instincts were true, my judgment was right, and my future looks much, much more inspiring than it had two months before.

And at this moment, I only wish L was here to share it with me.

The Alarm Clock

I am a punctual person. Very punctual. Some I have known consider that anal retentive, but I believe it has a direct correlation to integrity, character and a consideration for others. My ex had a different view of the concept of time, and has long struggled to be prompt for anything, anywhere. Ironically, my connection between punctuality and character don't actually apply to her though, because her consideration of others is exemplary, and she's someone that has a great deal of integrity. 

But goddamn, it's infuriating when someone is always late, especially when you're a person who's never late. And she's pissed off more than her share of people over the years with that temporal blind spot.

As a result, we got into a habit, over a decade ago, of setting the bedroom clock 15 or 20 minutes ahead. It was a way to motivate her out of bed, by insinuating the time was later than it actually was. Well- intentioned, perhaps, but all it really did was demand raw math skills at a time far too early for that side of my brain (right? left?) to be undertaking calculations. Eventually your brain grasped the fact that 7:42 actually meant 7:22, and you went back to sleep; it never solved the lateness issue. Yet, it became a morning routine habit that has persisted even after she's gone. Habit calcified into a daily mental twitch.

Today I set my alarm clock for the exact time.

I am living in the present. And I intend to stay there.

Doesn't make getting out of bed easier though on those days when the most spectacular person lays beside you, a gentle, warm smile on her face that appears to have not faded throughout the few short hours we dozed.

I suppose the alarm just gets set earlier now. That's why god invented the snooze button. Because even when you're in the present, eventually you have to get up and make the coffee.