Life Is Not a Stage Florence Henderson (13 ebook reader .txt) 📖

good-natured and very gracious, especially to all those who came backstage after the shows to visit with him. I was the last performer to work with him in Las Vegas, which happened to be on his ninety-eighth birthday, although he fulfilled his promise that he would live to be a hundred. His famous joke was that he couldn’t die before then because he was booked.

For me, however, the alcohol was really just the opening act, warming things up for the main attraction: The Affair. In the twenty-first century, celebrity love affairs and infidelities barely raise an eyebrow, and those who end up staying in a marriage for twenty, thirty, or fifty years are considered almost a freaky curiosity. But for a toe-the-line Catholic in the middle of the twentieth century, “till death do us part” was a serious vow, a one-way ticket. Of course, for those trapped in very unhappy situations, the death part took on a truly long and protracted meaning. Lovelessness, neglect, and abuse can be lethal in the long run. Plan B was resignation to the conditions as they were, another form of death by a thousand cuts, slowly but surely shriveling up, stressed out and diseased. Plan B also offered the optional route of checking out with drugs, alcohol, food, gambling, and other addictions.

I was certainly a prime candidate for Plan B. As gut-wrenching as it was to go against my long-held beliefs and have an affair, so was making the decision to write about it in this book. There was no way that I could truthfully tell my story without disclosing it, since it is at the top of the list of life-changing moments. Before signing the contract, I thought deeply about my ex-husband, whom I still love dearly and cherish as a lifelong friend. We were fortunate to move on over the years with forgiveness and acceptance of personal responsibility. We found a way to stay close and connected despite going our separate ways. I didn’t want to do anything now that would jeopardize this. Nor did I want to be a part of anything that might be construed as making myself look good at his expense or in any way pointing a finger of blame.

I thought also of my children, now all adults with families of their own. One of my sons even took me aside because he was understandably concerned about just how graphic I was going to be in talking about this period of my life.

In the end, the same answer applies to my ex-husband, my children, and the prospective reader. The ultimate love I can share is to offer up my experiences, warts and all, with the intention that it will in some way be helpful to others. For my family, would it have ultimately served them well had I followed the likely pathway of Plan B? Or will they read these pages and view their mother and grandmother as someone who made hard choices (and often mistakes), but modeled for them in her actions something helpful in the final tally? If I am honest and forthright in telling how I dealt with my problems instead of sweeping everything under the carpet, maybe they will avoid the possibility of carrying on the family legacy of riding galloping horses. For Ira, I hope that he will see a more enlightened purpose behind the retelling of what happened between us and not some ridiculous attempt to settle old scores. I hope it will be an inspiration to all of those who are out there today struggling to forgive each other and themselves. As difficult as it was at times, it worked out well in the end for both of us. Ira is happily married to a lovely woman who is a friend to my children and me.

The affair was with a man who was one of my musicians. I think he was in the same place as I was in his marriage. There was enormous chemistry between us, and we were crazy about each other. It is a gross understatement to say that I was in conflict about the whole thing. I didn’t know where in the hell I was, or what I was thinking. Everything was turned upside down. But there was one thing for sure: I was ready. I felt I wanted to seize the opportunity. Who knew if it would ever come again?

When people step outside, there’s usually a good reason for it. If you are in a union that is functioning well from both a spiritual and a physical standpoint, you are going to think twice about violating that. I enjoyed sex with Ira, but the stress over the whole family planning issue, as mentioned before, was a heavy burden to overcome. That healthy sexual desire and drive hardwired into all humans that can be a continuous source of joy and rejuvenation was not working in our relationship. Instead, we grew accustomed to the static, low-grade tension to the point where the dysfunction was tolerated as normal.

I told him once, “Ira, I know you love me, but I don’t think you like me very much.” He was by nature not the jealous type, but given the emotional constraints of his childhood, I think he resented my freedom and my persona. I often felt he would have been happier had he married a nice Jewish girl from Brooklyn. I, on the other hand, brought my own special baggage to the mix. The expectations I had about romance and happiness were unrealistic and naïve in so many ways, a tangible by-product of my upbringing that also put strain on the relationship. All those newspaper and magazine articles about being the perfect wife and mother in the perfect home were not a public relations exercise but something I deeply believed. It was like that concept that if you repeat something enough times, it can turn an illusion into a perception that you start to believe and regard as fact.

The affair with