The Hovering Ex

You’ll know them by their charm.  The hovering ex oozes an excessively sweet charm reminiscent of the tooth ache you’d get from the bottle of Coke and theTwinkie that passed for lunch in high school.

He’ll feign interest in the “new” couch you purchased six months ago; the one that he sat on the last three times he came to see the kids.

He’ll gush over your daughter’s art, while not-so-subtly taking credit for her talent.

He’ll be too excited about mundane stuff – the end of the school year, the amount of rain in the last spring storm, or the tread on the tires he bought two seasons ago.  This is done to keep the conversation going.  This is about trying to stay in your house as long as possible.

He’ll buy you petunias for the window boxes even though the boxes are on the shaded side of the house.  You’ll be confused by this, but you won’t want to be in his presence long enough to ask why he brought you flowers.  He’s not even sure why he brought you flowers.  Call it instinct or desperation.  Call it a Hail Mary.  He’s grasping at straws and you’re the last straw on his horizon.

 

You are not impressed.  It’s been a long time since you were impressed.  At this point in your life, you can’t even remember why you were ever impressed.

Not only are you not impressed, you are repulsed.  All the petunias in the world won’t be enough to make you interested again.  A bigger house with window boxes on the sunny side would not be enough to make you interested.

And still he hovers …

 

Not all exes hover.

Many of the divorced are too busy running in the other direction to stop and look back at who they are running from.  Those who do glimpse in the rear view mirror run faster than the wind blows from the eastern slope of the Rockies.

But the older, unattached, male ex is going to hover.

He can’t help it.  His clock is ticking, much like the clock of a 38 year old childless female.

He’s getting on in years – way on.  He’s run out of time to attract a new source.  He needs someone to remind him to take his prescriptions, do his cooking and cleaning, and warm his bed.  He wants someone to listen to the 437th telling of the same worn out story.  His clock ticks to remind him that he may soon be in need of a caretaker, a listener and a maid.

 

As his car pulls away from the curb in front of your house, you laugh when remembering how he hated the way you cooked his eggs, and go back to planting impatiens in the shaded window boxes.