****Understanding 

Twitterpated?

Really? I've been called Twitterpated? Them is feudin' words! I slap your Bambi with my glove of stinky five fingers. I'll show you twitterpated!

Ok, now that my Superman Underoos are all in a bunch, maybe I should explain. Well maybe that's not true. My underoos are fitting quite nicely, thank you: form fitting, not bunchy at all, and no, that is not the side effects of "twiterpation."

Somebody recently posted that they were tired of seeing relational happiness in a place of flourishing ire crude. The joy was really mucking the mood. Me, I completely understand, I've been there.

I remember that phase. Oh, I've buried it deep in a steel drum in the back of the garage under twenty feet of cement, but I do remember it. It wasn't pretty. MyEx moved out, taking her half of the memorabilia and leaving me with a steaming pile of what's left.

Yeah, that was fun sorting through. Even better, Within a month, I had a vacation. See, before we'd talked about divorce, I'd requested our anniversary off, I did it every year. This year wasn't any different, except the part where I was spending it alone. That was different.

The Bambis of joy leapt merrily into the wood chipper of my soul. Yeah, If I'd been in the meadow, I'd have taken Bambi's mom out myself.

"Mother? Mother?"

"Three more steps little guy. I'll show you where she's at."

Yeah, those were the memories I built for myself. I was just a little bitter. It's to be expected. The reality is, we all go through it. What's important is to move past it. To move past the point where everything reminds us of our ex.

"McDonalds? We used to eat at McDonalds!"

It is true. Now I find myself in a different place. I don't deny it, I revel in it! Twitterpated? Not really. Twitterpated is high school crush dreamy with a cherry on top. It's the Big Giddy turned up to eleven. It's doe eyed and foolish. Trust me, I'm not there. Oh I feel good and tingly, but this is different. This is the wary 2 finger Rob playing with the Ginsu. Sure it feels good, but I've loved and lost digits before. I have baggage holding me down to earth.

It's also been theorized that standing in this happier state, I have no clue what lurks in the shadow. Well to that, let show you one of Rob's remaining two fingers. Damn! It's just a ring finger. That's really not what I was trying to show off at all.

I honestly hope that I understand. Because if I don't, the I'm doomed to repeat and return. No offense, but I don't want to go back. I won't. I mean, not returning has nothing to do with you. Don't take it personal, you can come out here and join me, and I won't mind at all. I'll probably offer you a cup of coffee.

Still, I will say this: the Pirate Queen is a wonderful woman, but I would sooner take the journey alone than return to that dark place. I have my eyes open, and I'm willing to jump if need be. That doesn't mean that I'm walking with an ejector seat strapped to my back.

"Goose!"

No, I'm willing to risk for happiness, but I'm not a maverick climbing into the jet blindly. It took this dinosaur too much effort to drag himself out of the tar to begin with. And that's what I do understand. What I don't understand is how to avoid a really awkward mixed metaphor.

Another thing I understand, is how I saved myself from extinction. First step, before I even thought about the meadow or twitterpation, I built new memories. When I took my anniversary vacation, I pulled out my camera and took pictures. I shot things around the house, I shot things around town, and yes, I did shoot Bambi's mom, but I did not shoot the deputy.

I took pictures of things like the orange paint on my bedroom wall. I wanted to see things differently. I'd been married, now I wasn't. I needed a fresh perspective, because the old perspective didn't fit anymore. I did everything to remind myself that things could be fresh and new.

I took a lot of convincing.

Still, as months passed, I refamiliarized myself with my life.

"Hi Rob, I'm Rob."

And you know what? The next year, when my anniversary rolled around, I looked at my pictures, and remembered my week off. Sure, I also remembered MyEx and all the vacations we'd taken together. What I didn't remember was the struggle. I remembered having fun to spite myself.

So now I offer you this. Force yourself to go out. Make yourself have fun. You don't have to shoot Bambi's mom to have a good time. You can run over your ex. Ok, no, I'm kidding don't do that. No, really, get out of the truck.

Ok, while I go chase down half of my readers, the other three of you stay and have fun. Do other things you enjoy. I know one person who took up singing as one of her Non-ex repertoire. You can sing, salsa, or sew. It doesn't matter so long as it's something new and fun and something you.

Because here's the thing. You're at a crossroads. You can choose to sit in a stack of photo albums of what was, or you can start filling new scrapbooks with what is. It takes time to remember, but who we are is so much more than who we were. Step forward, because that's where you are.

It's true, where you are, is a place I may never understand. But I do understand where I was, and that's a place I never want to be again.