Fall From Grace

by Janette Cole

The pedestal was golden and I was tarnished brass.

I had no idea.

Instead, I believed I was an inexperienced young woman with her first serious boyfriend. At the tender age of 20, I'd never been loved before and thoroughly enjoyed being told I was beautiful. I reveled in the roses and semi-fine dining. I ignored the nagging feeling that I couldn't quite be myself. I wasn't trying to hide anything, but knew from copious amounts of chick-flick viewing that I had to put forth my best foot at all times. I laughed at silly jokes that weren't always funny. I smiled enthusiastically even on days when I was feeling down. I kept my sharp tongue to myself. In short, I wrapped up my personality in a tight little bundle, secured it with three rolls of duct tape, and buried it at the bottom of my heart. I'd take one look at Ryan's quirky smile and not even mind that I'd lost myself. He loves me, I'd happily remind myself, as I squashed down the real me. No wonder Ryan thought I belonged on that golden pedestal among the angels.

It's not that I actually lied about anything. I didn't maliciously set out to fool Ryan into thinking I was someone I was not. I just had no idea how to act around a man. I'd been raised by a single mom who didn't have time for men. My role models were those women who graced the silver screen and I was just young enough to believe that romance was always a shimmering box of delights. When Ryan would begin a political tirade, I'd listen politely and nod my head while staring at his intense blue eyes and daydreaming about our wedding colors. I was young and in love. I didn't care about the state of the world at large. I only cared about the state of my newfound romance, and Ryan's tender caresses proved that it was very good indeed.

When he'd make disturbing statements about the role of a wife in a marriage--that she should always be subordinate to her husband--I'd laugh it off and assume he didn't see that same path for us. I thought he must be talking in generalities, not about the way he actually saw his life. Surely these statements didn't reflect the way he actually saw me.

His words showed a great disrespect for women, but I didn't understand it at the time. He was showering me with flowers and spoiling me with unexpected little gifts of candy and love cards. How could he be anything but wonderful? He may have been a little old-fashioned, but he never treated me poorly. He opened doors for me and kissed me gently. When he looked at me, I could see that he worshipped me. What girl wouldn't thrill when she saw complete adoration in the eyes of an almost-swoon-worthy man, especially when she'd never seen it before?

I'd met a man who idolized women in the abstract. When he fell in love with a woman he didn't give any consideration to the reality of her personality. He saw her as a goddess or angel, despite the fact that such a creature doesn't really exist in this earthly realm. He believed he was a perfect gentleman and his sense of self would not allow for his perfect girlfriend to have any imperfections that might come from an authentic personality.

If I'd have known I was perched on a golden pedestal I might have been able to brace for my free-fall from the top instead of having the wind knocked out of me and my heart broken in at least 54 pieces.

The beginning of the end started as so many of our dates did. He picked me up and gave me a chaste kiss. I smiled warmly and gave him a hug, then ran my fingers through that oh-so-sexy hair of his. It had a slight curl to it, which thrilled me to my very toes. He had flowers, as usual, so I ran into the apartment to put them in water. He wandered over to my desk and picked up the copy of a research paper I'd left out.--"Pro-Lifers Fail to Grasp Reality."

I never had a chance.

I came back into the room and a man I'd never met was sitting on the sofa. The eyes that had been alight with unabashed adoration were now simmering pools of anger. His normally soft lips were compressed in a tight, thin line. If I believed in auras, I'd say the air surrounding him was so black that a 100-watt light bulb wouldn't have penetrated the darkness.

Before I could even ask what happened, he threw the paper at me in a gesture of disgust.

"You believe this?" he barked.

I didn't know what to say. If I lied would it fix everything? Would I still be loved? If I told the truth would I lose the only person who'd ever told me I was beautiful?

I went with the truth. I was tempted to lie and try to maintain the status quo, but something inside me released that little bit of my soul that I'd kept tied up and buried for a very long three months. Instead of trying to placate my former boyfriend--as I thought of him in that moment, even though the break-up words had yet to be spoken--I unleashed a torrent of feminist-speak at him. To say he was shocked doesn't quite do justice to the situation.

With a look of hatred unlike any I'd ever seen before, he spat out the words I'd brought upon myself: "You're not the woman I thought you were."

He stormed out of my apartment and I never heard from him again, though I'd occasionally see him around campus and we'd both do our best to ignore each other.

I waffled between grief over the loss of my first relationship and anger over his attitude for a long, long time. Eventually, though, I figured out that he was the type of man who could never have a normal relationship because his ideas of romance were just as idealized as mine. He wanted a woman to worship, not a woman to live with, laugh with and love with.

Today I'm happily married to a man who loves me for who I am. He worships me . . . but just a little. I never want complete adoration again. I just want someone to help me polish my tarnished spots.

The Author

Janette Cole is a creative soul trapped in an insurance saleswoman's body. She has written several poems and short stories, most of which she hides in her underwear drawer.