Another Chump Lady Birthday

Today is Chump Lady’s birthday. It’s an annual tradition to tell my 40th birthday story, how I ordered a truckload of manure and it became a metaphor.

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Every year I tell the cow flop story on my birthday. And every year I get older and farther and farther away from the nightmare that was my life at 40. This year I am updating my book, Leave a Cheater, Gain a Life (it comes out this time next year, September 2026 along with a new audiobook that I will be narrating.) Mr. CL and I have been married for 15 years. I don’t have a kid in school any longer, in fact he’s married. And I’m spending my birthday weekend visiting him and his wife at their new home.

So, what’s the point of this?

My new life eclipsed my old life. I survived. Every birthday since that cow flop day has been so much better. And I’m still here telling people it gets better.

Alas, a lot of the infidelity advice still sucks. These days, all my manure shoveling is reserved for the Universal Bullshit Translator. But never a day goes by that I’m not grateful to be out of that mess. It’s been my privilege since 2012 to help other chumps leave cheaters to a life with no more devaluing, shitty gifts, or terrible D-Day surprises.

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Today is my birthday

Well, I try not to blog about myself too much, because God, how narcissistic and dull. (Mommy blogging anyone? Does anyone want to know about my son’s travails with geometry?) But I’m going to make an exception today, because today is my birthday.

I’m fairly ancient, if you’re curious.

What does my descent into middle-aged decrepitude  have to do with infidelity? Well, every birthday is a reminder of my 40th birthday, which sucked epically. And I thought I’d tell you about it as an example of how different life can be post-cheater.

When I turned 40, I had just moved to a new state with my then husband for his job. I’d been married four months. We bought a 100-year old fixer upper house (with my money) and it had been badly neglected. A widow had owned it and hadn’t done yard work since her husband had died years ago.

But hey, you know what they say about codependents, right? Codependency is the addiction to the POTENTIAL of things. I was still a flaming codependent. I loved the potential of this ancient pile of house and I was resurrecting the garden single handedly.

It was the day of my 40th birthday and I ordered myself a truck load of cow manure from a local farmer.

He delivered it, dumped it in my yard and I spent the day ankle deep in shit, shoveling cow flop around.

At the time — swear to God — I thought “I’m ankle deep in shit on my 40th birthday. This must be a METAPHOR for something!”

My metaphor called me about six weeks later. It was the Other Woman phoning to let me know she existed. Turns out — surprise! — my husband had a mistress spanning 20 years and three marriages. (She wasn’t the only one, either.) I had NO IDEA. Remember, I’m a CHUMP. No clue. None. Zip. Zilch.

I had just moved to a no fault divorce state, financed a serial cheater’s career move, and bought a 100-year old fixer upper with this sociopath.

How I got out of that mess is another story for another time (many miracles, a lot of idiocy on my part — idiocy I share with you as trial-tested results of What Not To DO). The point was… my birthday.

My 40th birthday sucked.

I literally spread shit on my 40th birthday. My cheater husband’s gift to me was a pen. (Admittedly a nicer gift than the tie-dye motif license plate cover he presented to me that Christmas). And during that weekend, unbeknownst to me at the time, he was off screwing his mistress. Cherry on top of the poop sundae.

What a difference a new life makes.

Today I am remarried to Mr. CL who is truly my better half. He’s nerdy and kind and super smart. Verbal. Bright. A mensch. A wonderful father to his kids and a rock to my son. He eats too much popcorn and loves polka music. His quirks fit my quirks. I marvel every day at my amazing fortune that this is my life… and I will shut up now before you choke on my treacly, heartfelt, love goop.

Mr. CL has been pestering me for the last week about what I want for my birthday breakfast. He is a master at French toast, and tragically for him, I do not care for French toast. (“It’s JUST LIKE BREAD PUDDING! You love bread pudding!” No, it’s not the same. French toast is a pale substitute because it’s not drenched in Bourbon.) I got a sweet roll and coffee and flowers for breakfast. Swoon.

He took me out on a date last weekend. The man hates to wear all things dry clean only and he put a pressed shirt on. He opened my door. He bought the fancy dinner.

I’m not writing this to make you hate me.

Or to imply that a new partner is the only way to move on. I am writing this to you to say  — YOU ALL DESERVE LOVE. Everyone deserves to have someone in their life who delights in delighting them. Who gets honest to God pleasure from giving to them. Who will go to whatever effort just to PLEASE you on your birthday.

You know what’s sexy? EFFORT. Effort is sexy.

I didn’t know this until I was 42 and met my husband. I spent a lifetime in my relationships shoveling shit to one degree or another. I’m not saying (sniff!) no one loved me, no one bought me a pretty present. I’m saying — I didn’t know what reciprocity felt like. What it was to love someone who loved me back just as hard, maybe harder. Who if I lobbed the ball to him, picked it up and lobbed it right back. And threw it further into the green, past me, so that I had to run to catch it. Who (damn him) is ahead on this birthday celebration thing. But I have a few things planned… his turn is coming…

Never settle. Good people who make effort exist. Don’t waste your love on unworthy jerks.

Today I’m going to celebrate being another year older. A manure-free birthday to me and many returns!