I call it Mistress of the Universe Syndrome Experience. It’s not love. It’s more than like. It’s less than infatuation.
It’s the thing that makes you strut down the street with a certain air of confidence, satisfaction and gleeful immaturity.
And boy, have I got it bad with Super Preppy. Which is nice, because I haven’t had that glow that comes with MUSE since getting divorced two years ago.
“You’re beaming,” says Alexandra, my Russian waxer, whom I adore. “You’re just like my girlfriend. I told her, ‘If you don’t admit you’re having an affair, I’m not going to be friends with you anymore.’ She asked, ‘How can you tell?’ I said, ‘It’s tattooed all over your face.’ ”
I’m giddy, and Alexandra is glad to see me this way. The two of us have been through everything together, all with my legs curled up during the tortuous every-three-weeks ritual that is the Brazilian wax.
“So my friend is a different woman now,” Alexandra says. “She’s wearing a new perfume every day, she’s on top of the world, and all the men are staring at her wherever she goes.”
As I move to a sitting position so that Alexandra can work on my brows, she asks, “So you are going to marry this man?”
She means Super Preppy. I stare at her.
“What?” I say. “We’ve been dating for like a month and a half.”
“But are you going to marry him?”
“I have no idea,” I say.
“But you would marry again,” she says.
“Yes,” I say.
Alexandra is smart. She’s the one who pointed to a change in me last year as I came out of the paralytic haze of grief that was my initial experience as a divorcée.
“The thing about my first husband . . . ” I had been telling Alexandra, when she stopped me.
“Wait,” Alexandra asked. “How many husbands have you had?”
“Just one,” I said.
“Then you are ready,” she said. “You didn’t say ‘ex-husband.’ You said ‘first.’ ”
I realized then that the man who had been my husband, life partner and best friend was no longer my ex, but my first.
And last month I saw him – for the first time in the two years since our divorce.
We had been together almost 10 years during our relationship, half of that time as husband and wife, and he was in town visiting from Chicago for the weekend.
When we met outside BAM in Brooklyn, we fumbled and smiled and were pleasant – like two people who had just bonded over a favorite movie at a cocktail party. Our drink passed quickly, and we said how nice it was to catch up. Then we gave each other acquaintance hugs goodbye, and as I walked away the tears started streaming.
He’s the only person who makes me cry.
Then I heard it. From behind me, he called my name.
Tears flowing, my Brooklyn neighborhood fuzzed as I turned toward him.
“Mandy,” he said. “I just want you to know . . . I’ll always care about you.”
Then we really hugged. Not as acquaintances, not as lovers, but as two people who cared for each other deeply.
“Now,” he said, “go kick some ass.”
We kept hugging and crying. I thought about everyone watching us, thinking we must be two young people in love, saying goodbye.
And that’s exactly what we were.
mstadtmiller@nypost.com
