Nothing Matters

Copyright © 2011 Denise J. Wilson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Balboa Press books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

Balboa Press

A Division of Hay House

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.balboapress.com

1-(877) 407-4847

ISBN: 978-1-4525-3881-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-3882-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-3880-8 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011915545

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Printed in the United States of America

Balboa Press rev. date: 10/06/2011

Contents

Preface

Villain #1

Villain #2

Unexpected Good

Guy #1

Villain #3

Help Wanted

The New Job

A Celebrity Sighting

A Postcard from Maui

It’s Not Always Sunny

Another New Job

I’m Not Julia Roberts

I Think My Soul is Coming Out

Disaster

Life

Is this Love?

After Words

About the Author

Preface

This is a book about how I came to be where I am. Which technically speaking is the island of Maui. Non-technically, I’m lying flat on my back as the result of having been smacked upside the head by some force greater than myself deciding I needed a little comeuppance. I lost my job, my relationship of 15 years and a whole lot of other stuff that I thought meant something.

But I’m smiling. And guess what? I’m not getting up. I kinda like it down here. It’s a different perspective. Go ahead, step on me. I won’t mind. In fact, I’ll probably learn something I needed to know from the markings on the soul of your shoe.

P.S. The name of one individual was changed to protect that person’s feelings.

Villain #1

The Ex-boyfriend. Of Course.

I can’t believe it. I’d been with the guy 15 years and here he was, standing in my kitchen, telling me: I don’t think you’re the girl for me. And he was saying it so calmly. Like, can I have a Diet Coke? This, after I’d just told him I was considering putting my place up for rent. Which implied I was taking him up on his offer to move back in with him.

It’s February, 2009. We’d broken up before, four years prior, at which point I’d moved out. Eventually I bought a place of my own in the same condo complex he lived in. I know, I know, stupid. But it seemed inevitable that we were to be together so I bought the place. After awhile, he programmed a garage door opener that allowed him to walk out his front door and into my house with the click of a button. Every night when I heard the garage door humming up, I knew he was home.

So here he was initiating another break up. Okay, I thought. I can deal with this. The tricky part was he was my boss, too.

Do you want me to find another job? I asked.

Hell no!

I mentally breathed a sigh of relief. I loved my job. I managed to keep working for him through the first breakup and I knew I could do it again. We’d still be friends. This wasn’t going to be some drama-filled, nasty split. I’d still be able to talk to him. He’d still be my best friend. And life would be relatively normal, which is something I always craved.

He’d called me out on that one before. You’ll do anything to keep things the same, won’t you? It wasn’t said in a flattering light. It was during a phone conversation midway through our relationship when I’d called to apologize after a fight. I’d done nothing wrong. But I was so desperate for normal, I swallowed really hard and dialed his number as I was driving.

Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. It was pathetic, looking back. Weak. And of all things, he detested weakness more than anything. The contempt in his rebuke of my apology was as dry and harsh as a Georgia O’Keefe skull baking in the New Mexico desert. I hung up, thinking it was over.

It was a weird game, now that I look back. He’d say things to make me prove that I really wanted him. And I’d say them. Of course it was my fault, too, because I played along.

I chose this person and the breakup as Villain #1 because it was the biggest thing that had ever happened to me, in terms of emotional size. And it took something this big to get me to a whole other place. It represents 15 years of stripping away the tricky things I’d say to myself to make everything fit a vision that I deemed appropriate. Or the way I would rehearse a story to make sure it was received in a way that made me look however I wanted to be perceived. For example, wanting people to think of me as a victim of someone else’s reprehensible behavior, when I really was complicit in allowing the behavior to happen. Or wanting people to think of me as a brilliant problem-solver, without actually saying it. I would just use carefully selected words and a sequence of sentences that would lead whoever I was talking with to that conclusion. I would modestly leave off the part about my being brilliant. But the net effect I was trying to achieve was to leave my audience in awe, silently thinking, Wow, she’s really smart. I wish I could be her!

So, a little back story. Actually, it’s the whole story because the part above was the end.

I met Joe in 1990 when I was a fledgling real estate agent. Early one afternoon, with nothing to do, I decided preview the inventory available to buyers—in case I should happen to run into one. Joe was finishing one of his first houses in an upscale, gated neighborhood in a little bedroom community that boasted 99% white people. The other 1% was Scandinavian. Just kidding. But really, there were no black people. No Hispanics. No Koreans. No East Indians. And given this was Washington State, white really meant white. As in, these people can’t even get enough of a tan where the word ethnic? might briefly cross your mind.

I’d just finished wandering through a house when one of the subdivision’s builders came barging through the front door. Are you an agent? he demanded. Uh, yes, I responded, trying to sound competent, even though it was still my temporary license hanging in my broker’s office. We need somebody new. So-and-so hasn’t done a goddamn thing to bring us offers. And we’re dyin’. We’re dyin’ on the vine. (He was from the south. Texas or someplace where the alphabet’s been reduced to 25 letters.) Alright, I said slowly, stringing out the word till I could come up with some Realtor-like pronouncement. Let me go back to my office and put together a proposal. I was buying myself some time. I’ve never been good at spontaneity. My best lines always come when I’m five miles down the road and the surly sales clerk is busy honing her inattentiveness to new, unfathomable levels on her next customer.

I went back to the office and worked hard to craft a winning marketing proposal, complete with easels and storyboards. I presented the plan to the subdivision’s four builders, Joe being one of the four. By the end of the presentation, I’d signed up two of the builders. Joe and the fourth builder told me they’d already promised their listings to another agent. No problem, I responded, considering myself lucky to have gotten two of the four.

Long story short, the other agent dropped the ball and I ended up with Joe as a client. He was married. So was I. But I loved talking to him. I got that excited feeling in my stomach when he would walk into one of my Sunday open houses to see how things were going. It was flirting. No doubt. But in that crafty part of the mind where stories are carefully put together to make questionable actions sound innocent enough, one could say nothing untoward was going on. But toward was never so electric.

I sold Joe’s two spec houses that year and our business relationship came to an end. In the ensuing years, I’d hear from him periodically. Like the time he and a business partner bought a piece of land for the value of the timber on it. They logged the piece then decided to put up a spec house, which would be pure profit. Joe called for my advice. I gave it, then hung up. I sat at my desk for a minute, recalling everything about Joe I could. How his mustache gave him a Clark Gable quality that I always fell for. The distinct sharp, acidic smell when he passed by. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it wasn’t like the best cologne I’d ever smelled either. Maybe it was the chemicals listed in microscopic print on the Diet Pepsi’s he downed, six-pack at a time, oozing through his pores. Whatever it was, it was his distinct smell. And that sarcastic smile when he said something designed to provoke. Which he was expert at. Sometimes (a lot of times, frankly) he said stuff just to see the outrage. It gave him a sense of power. I think this now. But I was totally subject to it then. Age brings with it tiredness—or at least a focus that youthful energy obscures. I composed myself and got back to work, wondering if I would ever hear from him again.

I did. Almost a year later, although I couldn’t believe it had been that long. Even in my early thirties, I was amazed at how quickly time passes. Like going into the movies at 4pm. When you walk out at 6, into the setting sun, you think, What the heck?! What happened? As an aside, I think that’s precisely what occurs when you’re lying on your deathbed. You look around and shake your head. How can I be here? I still remember what it was like to be 17.

That afternoon, Joe stopped by my office. Just passing by, he said. He smiled. So did I. We talked for a while. It was one of those conversations that make absolutely no sense. You’re not really even paying attention to the words—you’re just looking into the eyes of the other person to see if the electricity matches your own. After a few minutes, he walked out the door and I walked back to my desk. Still smiling.

Another year passed. I was busy. I had two children, but I was unhappy in my marriage. My husband and I had drifted apart. So cliché. Actually, he hadn’t drifted anywhere. He was still in that bog of complacency that I was trying to lift myself out of, one squishy, shoe-sucking, mud-slurping leg lift at a time. I had changed. After ten years of marriage, with kids now in school, I was making money. I was contributing to the net worth of the household. My