On the Fence: A True Peter Pan Story
There are countless books advising Christian singles on how to meet "the one." But this week Singlesoutloud continues with its series where Christian couples share their true stories of how the Lord answered their prayers for "the one." Not surprisingly, each story is unique. Many don't even fit into the "dating rules" found in books.
The following is excerpted from Todd Coleman's upcoming book, “CONFESSIONS OF A RECOVERING PETER PAN.”
Marriage is a very grown-up business. But what if you’re in love with (or at least dating) Peter Pan?
My wife was, or did…once upon a time. When we met five years ago I was a confirmed (but eligible) bachelor with all the right contradictions, at least for L.A.—sensitive but strong, single but wanting a family, artistic but heterosexual.
But (and there’s always a “but”)… I was barely making my rent as a starving writer (Strike One)… I had never been married, engaged, or even divorced (Strike Two)… and though I looked 32, I was in fact a whopping 45 years old (Danger, Wilma Robinson!).
But wait, it gets worse. Like a lot of charming, over-aged adolescents, I still hadn’t found the “perfect” woman—as if. I even had a Top Ten list of impossible things I was looking for in a wife—14, actually.
Blame it on Hollywood—the surgical fountain of youth, where even grandmothers are sexy. Tinseltown is the high-school version of Neverland, where Cool is King and you still get graded (A-list, B-list, C-list). Fame and fortune are only a phone call away, and you can die of encouragement—but you’ll look fantastic.
Do you believe in miracles? Here’s mine: Today, I am happily married to a beautiful and extraordinary English woman; I am the father of a gorgeous girl and little boy; and—gasp—I am a homeowner. (Oops, I mean “we” are homeowners; bachelor habits die hard).
Somewhere between Point A and Point B was a learning curve so steep that it was like an Indian rope trick—or so says my English father-in-law today.
How did this Peter Pan learn to shed his boyish shadow? How and why would any of us charming rogues want to trade in Neverland for the Real World?
It all happened on one of those unpleasant occasions when Josie broke up with me—in this case, by email. I had foolishly tried to “work though” my commitment fears using that same instant miscommunication device, and she wanted nothing to do with it.
I’m not sure who was more crushed by the breakup, me or my father—who happened to be visiting my sister and me from Nashville, and who had met—and fallen in love with—Josie the day before.
Dad’s greatest fear, as he had shared once too often, was that his eldest son—the spitting image of his own insecurities—would one day end up “broke, single and 40.” (Thanks, Dad.) Now that I was broke, single and 45—but with a great girlfriend—the stakes were high enough for a nosebleed.
On receiving the Dear John email from Josie, my first impulse was to "fix" things—to “un-rock” the boat and get the fun times we were having (read “convenient”) back on track. But Josie wasn’t answering my calls (or emails). Stunned and heartbroken, my father and I drove to the Santa Monica bluffs and sat on a park bench amid the homeless, staring gloomily at the shiny Pacific below.
Fortunately my little sister Mary—a marriage-and-family therapist in her forties—had some great advice: “Buy flowers and drive to her house.”
I scraped together all the cash I had—$16.60—and headed for the Valley, stopping at a flower shop along the way. I still wasn’t convinced that Josie was "The One"—though all my friends were. On three separate occasions, three different longtime friends, upon meeting Josie, looked me in the eyes and said the same words: “Don’t f-(mess) it up.”
I now spent over 30 minutes trying to convince the jaded flower shop owner to give me a $20 of flowers for $16.60. He correctly guessed my predicament, informing me that “all flowers are guilt flowers”…then, after telling me how to walk and carry the flowers when I saw Josie (casually, flowers pointed down, and “Look the bull in the eyes”), he suggested I consider therapy.
Driving to Josie's house with my $16.60 yellow roses and pink gladiolas (not a bad combination), I was now assaulted by my worst c-c-c-c-commitment fears:
What are you doing! If you bring Josie flowers, she’ll forgive you…and then she’ll love you even more! And for what—a future break-up in which I get to play the bad guy? Are you sure you want to take this thing deeper? She broke up with you; you’re off the hook!
Maybe this relationship wasn’t meant to be, after all. Josie wasn’t really “my type” (i.e. unhealthy, aloof, unavailable). And I definitely missed that euphoric “in-love” feeling that sexy, neurotic women (who trigger my unresolved child-parent issues) so deftly inspire. Surely I could find someone better—if only I held out for a few more (forty?) years.
That was the devil, on my left shoulder. The right-shoulder angel offered a different point of view, reminding me of some very wise advice a guy in my men’s group had shared: “Put on sunscreen and bask in her love.”
Copyright © 2007 Todd Coleman
todd@craftsmanpictures.com
Tomorrow, Part II of A True Peter Pan Story
The following is excerpted from Todd Coleman's upcoming book, “CONFESSIONS OF A RECOVERING PETER PAN.”
Marriage is a very grown-up business. But what if you’re in love with (or at least dating) Peter Pan?
My wife was, or did…once upon a time. When we met five years ago I was a confirmed (but eligible) bachelor with all the right contradictions, at least for L.A.—sensitive but strong, single but wanting a family, artistic but heterosexual.
But (and there’s always a “but”)… I was barely making my rent as a starving writer (Strike One)… I had never been married, engaged, or even divorced (Strike Two)… and though I looked 32, I was in fact a whopping 45 years old (Danger, Wilma Robinson!).
But wait, it gets worse. Like a lot of charming, over-aged adolescents, I still hadn’t found the “perfect” woman—as if. I even had a Top Ten list of impossible things I was looking for in a wife—14, actually.
Blame it on Hollywood—the surgical fountain of youth, where even grandmothers are sexy. Tinseltown is the high-school version of Neverland, where Cool is King and you still get graded (A-list, B-list, C-list). Fame and fortune are only a phone call away, and you can die of encouragement—but you’ll look fantastic.
Do you believe in miracles? Here’s mine: Today, I am happily married to a beautiful and extraordinary English woman; I am the father of a gorgeous girl and little boy; and—gasp—I am a homeowner. (Oops, I mean “we” are homeowners; bachelor habits die hard).
Somewhere between Point A and Point B was a learning curve so steep that it was like an Indian rope trick—or so says my English father-in-law today.
How did this Peter Pan learn to shed his boyish shadow? How and why would any of us charming rogues want to trade in Neverland for the Real World?
It all happened on one of those unpleasant occasions when Josie broke up with me—in this case, by email. I had foolishly tried to “work though” my commitment fears using that same instant miscommunication device, and she wanted nothing to do with it.
I’m not sure who was more crushed by the breakup, me or my father—who happened to be visiting my sister and me from Nashville, and who had met—and fallen in love with—Josie the day before.
Dad’s greatest fear, as he had shared once too often, was that his eldest son—the spitting image of his own insecurities—would one day end up “broke, single and 40.” (Thanks, Dad.) Now that I was broke, single and 45—but with a great girlfriend—the stakes were high enough for a nosebleed.
On receiving the Dear John email from Josie, my first impulse was to "fix" things—to “un-rock” the boat and get the fun times we were having (read “convenient”) back on track. But Josie wasn’t answering my calls (or emails). Stunned and heartbroken, my father and I drove to the Santa Monica bluffs and sat on a park bench amid the homeless, staring gloomily at the shiny Pacific below.
Fortunately my little sister Mary—a marriage-and-family therapist in her forties—had some great advice: “Buy flowers and drive to her house.”
I scraped together all the cash I had—$16.60—and headed for the Valley, stopping at a flower shop along the way. I still wasn’t convinced that Josie was "The One"—though all my friends were. On three separate occasions, three different longtime friends, upon meeting Josie, looked me in the eyes and said the same words: “Don’t f-(mess) it up.”
I now spent over 30 minutes trying to convince the jaded flower shop owner to give me a $20 of flowers for $16.60. He correctly guessed my predicament, informing me that “all flowers are guilt flowers”…then, after telling me how to walk and carry the flowers when I saw Josie (casually, flowers pointed down, and “Look the bull in the eyes”), he suggested I consider therapy.
Driving to Josie's house with my $16.60 yellow roses and pink gladiolas (not a bad combination), I was now assaulted by my worst c-c-c-c-commitment fears:
What are you doing! If you bring Josie flowers, she’ll forgive you…and then she’ll love you even more! And for what—a future break-up in which I get to play the bad guy? Are you sure you want to take this thing deeper? She broke up with you; you’re off the hook!
Maybe this relationship wasn’t meant to be, after all. Josie wasn’t really “my type” (i.e. unhealthy, aloof, unavailable). And I definitely missed that euphoric “in-love” feeling that sexy, neurotic women (who trigger my unresolved child-parent issues) so deftly inspire. Surely I could find someone better—if only I held out for a few more (forty?) years.
That was the devil, on my left shoulder. The right-shoulder angel offered a different point of view, reminding me of some very wise advice a guy in my men’s group had shared: “Put on sunscreen and bask in her love.”
Copyright © 2007 Todd Coleman
todd@craftsmanpictures.com
Tomorrow, Part II of A True Peter Pan Story
Labels: Testimonies
1 Comments:
Love it! Where's Part 2!
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