Page 5 - Asheville NC Revised2

Was I already fated to go ecstatically and agonizingly through worship of ever changing women? If so, I was not alone. Some sociologists say serial monogamy is the dominant mating behavior of those born after 1946. Confirmation comes from the 2002 Encyclopedia Americana. It states that divorce has soared from 2% in the 1950s to around 50% since the early `70s. And an even higher percentage of divorces for second marriages. And that’s not counting the splits between nonmarried lovers.
Nevertheless, now that I’m 45 and living in Asheville, North Carolina, many of my boomer peers are making solemn contracts before God and country by swearing oaths of endless monogamy. Others aren’t swearing but are declaring that they plan on sharing the rest of their lives with one lover. And both sets of these boomers are beginning to denounce my serial monogamy as the actions of a sick, narcissistically wounded, Peter Pan, sex-addicted codependent and other loaded words. Am I unable to make a permanent commitment because of some psychic scar? Or am I just plain irresponsible?
Yet, I’m not that different. Take those who claim monogamy but have married several times. By strict definition, after you’ve married or divorced just once, you are a potential serial monogamist, whether you claim it or not. Even if you do remarry, you’ve broken what is probably the most important oath of your life. How can we take you seriously if you solemnly swear it again?
However, if you do stay married to your second, third or fourth spouse until you die, we can put on your tombstone: “Was a serial monogamist who became a monogamist.” But we can say this only after death has redeemed your shaky pledge.
Of course this judgment is way too severe. These days it often takes multiple tries for legitimate monogamists to find their soul mates. And I too want to live happily ever after with one lover. Who wouldn’t? It just hasn’t worked out that way. It may be better to resign myself, and publicly define myself as a serial monogamist, semonog for short. Perhaps others should too.
Not that being a semonog doesn’t have its ecstasies. A couple of years ago I was working at Asheville University, loudly shredding large quantities of old documents containing social security numbers as mandated by privacy laws. I was feeling my talents were wasted on such mundane work. A dazzling Admissions Officer snuck in under cover of the rasping roar and made me jump when she tapped my shoulder. Her cream chiffon sleeves covered long, graceful arms. Chiffon and underlying soft brown shirt tucked into blue jeans that contoured long strong legs. She was big, but somehow looked also small all at once, with velvet black hair smooth and glistening straight to shoulder length, with a slight swirl of inward curl at the bottom.
“Are you that famed writer they just hired?” she asked above the roar in a slight