Our Official Stamp!

Dear Ether,

One of 365 can be read many ways.  It can be read as a beginning of a new day.  Of hope.  Of a new start.  It can be read as a journal (I do indeed address you in that format) where you monitor my life as each day passes.  The truth is, it can be anything you like.  But, as the writer, I intend to always be honest with you and want to give you the real reason why this blog came to fruition.  I also hate cryptic names for things and would want to know the real reason why the name “One of 365” was chosen.  And so I begin….

I’d met a man.  A very powerful man.  I spent one incredible night with him and then he vanished (very much into the “ether”) and was never to be seen again. 

We’d both been so lonely.  He was just about to become a divorcee, and I was in a relationship that was so lifeless that I hadn’t felt a spark from the opposite sex in what seemed like forever (and I’m a young woman).  We’d begun chatting, of all things, on Twitter.  It was one of those silly things that we’d swore we’d never do, did, and then began a friendship.  It was a very odd one and certainly on his terms and schedule.  We’d text, or direct message. It was very guarded, but also very flirtatious.  One night (both of us being insomniacs) we decided to ichat and spent 6 hours speaking without interruption.  He got me dreaming about him, and that meant he began to own my heart.  See, I’m weak.  I fall in love very easily.  It’s a curse because you either stay with someone too long, or you get hurt by someone because the feeling is not mutual.  Anyway, I wanted more than anything to meet him.  He was 16 years older, but so attractive, so rich, so powerful, so charming—the guy went to Harvard and hung out with movie stars.  My life was so dead and he made me feel so excited.  I’d wait for a random text-echo from my phone and eagerly read what he’d written.  I felt he was my golden ticket to a new life.  The life I always wanted.  One night we were speaking on the phone, and on a whim he told me to get to the W Hotel ASAP.  He’d be waiting there. I was finally going to be with him. 

Now, you have to know this about me before you pass any judgment.  I am NOT promiscuous.  I have slept with less than 5 men and this was all new to me. I agreed to go because my life was going nowhere, and I’d never done anything like this. I figured maybe if I followed the road less traveled it might turn out better.  I showered, threw on a Tory Burch dress, Falke tights, sexy KG heels and off I was driving way over the legal speed limit on Sunset heading towards my adventure.  To be honest with you, somewhere in my heart I knew that this was a fantasy.  A game.  Things like this never happened to me.  But, as I pressed my foot on the pedal and watched the menacing signs record my speedometer exceeding 55 in a 35, I didn’t care about anything but that I forgot to put on deodorant (shit!).  He’d seen my photo, and I’d seen his.  But, what happened if he didn’t like what he saw in person?  I knew if he had 1 eye, and was 2 feet tall I’d still be game, but would he?  I checked in and he put me down as Mrs. (his last name).  It was exhilarating.  Now, you gotta remember, this guys got major bucks.  He didn’t toil away on Expedia and book the suite and get the cheapest deal with a small box-room facing a gutter.  We had a penthouse on the top floor with views of the city—magical. 

I got to the room and heard loud music playing, rolled my eyes a bit (it is a bit tacky, no?) heard footsteps coming towards the door probably moving at the same rate as my heart—and there he stood—and he was gorgeous.  And, he ordered me deodorant from room service.  A true gent! 

I could tell you the clichés of the night.  How we talked until dawn.  Took the most amazing bath together.  The massages, and the dreams of flying to Europe together.  The lovemaking.  How I was the first woman he’d been with since the 18 years he’d been married.  How I told him he was the first man who’d made me feel sexy and beautiful since I was a teenager.  Ahh…the clichés.  I watched him as he slept that night and I stared and knew as his hand went limp in mine, and he drifted away, that I would probably never see him again.  But I refused to be THAT girl.  The one night girl.  The girl who everyone forgot.  I was SPECIAL.  I was UNIQUE.  Right? He told me all night long….and I swear to you, dearest Ether, he wasn’t lying and I am no fool. 

The dreaded morning came.  Our room, ironically, was right across the street from a Church and it was Sunday and the bell DID toll.  He looked at me and smiled, got up, and said “playtime is over, I gotta fly.”  Jarred, I got dressed.  He showered.  There were a thousand things going through my head and heart.  He had snagged me.  As before mentioned, I fall in love very easily and I’m embarrassed to admit that I DID love him.  I loved what he could give me.  What we could be.  And I knew if I told him he would think I was crazy, but all I kept thinking was that I was just being true of heart—human.  But I suppose that’s not how society works.  We cannot just express our souls.  Souls scare people. 

We stood at the doorway facing each other (my eyes were big as saucers and it was the first time I felt our age difference)—he grabbed my face and said, “Everything is gonna be okay.  I will call you.  But, I’ve got to fly.  Are you coming?”  I looked at him (not knowing it would be the last time), his hands still grasping my face, and I said “I can’t watch you leave—I’ll stay and then follow you.”  I half expected him to remain, but he bolted.  And I stood in penthouse 1503 with the decayed night around us, counted to ten, and with a heavy heart rode down the elevator to the valet who held the keys to my pumpkin.  As I drove away, he texted me.  Hopeful, I pulled over, but was shocked.  He told me he was overwhelmed by it all.  That he didn’t know how to act in a relationship yet.  That he would speak to me later.  I feverishly wrote to him.  The cars whizzed by, my fingers desperately trying to express my feelings through a stupid cell phone.  He never texted me back.  Days went by.  I texted again.  I called.  I left voice mails and love letters in his inbox.  I tried to speak to him at work—but he was powerful and his secretary wouldn’t let me get to him.

Finally, after weeks of a broken heart, he explained that just before their divorce was to be finalized, he and his wife decided, for the sake of 18 years and their kids, they wanted to try one last time.  That he meant everything he said to me that night.  That he knew my skin was thin, and that he cut it deeply and he was so sorry. The sock to my stomach and soul was overwhelming.  My dreams of 1^st class tickets to Europe, having lunch with Julia Roberts and wearing Lanvin to the Academy Awards vanished.  His smile, his soft hands that warmed my cool body—vanished.  It was unbearable.  In desperation, I made him strike a deal with me.  Breaking away from him was too painful.  I had to stay in touch.  I don’t know if it was low self-esteem or the fact that I was trying to save myself from a complete breakdown.   He said his wife didn’t want him, obviously, seeing women and that texting was out of the question as she might get hold of his phone.  So we devised a plan.  A single letter a day.  I told him that he needn’t write back, but that I would write to him faithfully.  The letter would sometimes be happy, it could be sad, it might be funny, it could be poignant.  But I swore never to deviate from a single day.  He agreed.  But it was ill fated.  After 4 days he told me the letters were too painful.  I remember staring at the e-mail and my throat closing up and going dry.  That was the final cut.  I might, one day, share one or two of the letters with you.  I don’t know you well enough, Ether, to show them to you yet.  But I tried, I gave him my heart.  But I guess I was a blunder, and ugly blight on his record, and my letters just reminded him of his mistake and he wanted to move on.  As I said, I loved HIM, but it was clear he did NOT love ME. 

I still think about him everyday.  I wonder if he was actually ever getting divorced in the first place or if he duped me?  I wonder if he ever thinks about me?  I wonder what effect I had, if any, on his life?  I sometimes wonder if that night really ever happened?  And I still, crazy as it is, hold onto the hope, that one day I might run into him.  And if I did, I would take his hands and have him hold my face and promise me again that everything was going to be okay just to have that moment not to ache again.

Heartbroken and bruised as I was and still am, the gift that those letters gave me was a connection and a tremendous catharsis.  It allowed me to speak to someone out there who didn’t necessarily have to answer, but who I could share my life with—the good, the bad and the ugly—and could feel a connection to.  So, dearest Ether, you are my continuation.  I begin again at day 1 with letter 1.  And when I surpass the number 4, which certainly will be very soon, you will be there to hold my hand. Because, you will be giving me the chance I never got—a version of my golden ticket (sans the Lanvin dress and the Academy Awards). 

You will learn so much about me.  Please be patient.  My stories will reveal what is necessary throughout time.  As I said, I will have good days, silly days, painful days, reflective days and days where I might just write a line or two.  But, like I always intended, I will remain faithful, and together we will reach 365.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365