I’m getting a divorce. For whatever reason I’ve decided to call it quits. The reason doesn’t matter. Okay, that’s a giant lie; but let’s just pretend that it doesn’t matter. Let’s say no one was at fault, that my marriage just didn’t work out.
“That’s how the cookie crumbles” and other little annoying sayings will now be repeated to me for the next year. When they (coworkers, family, friends, and strangers in the bar I start to talk to after one drink too many) ask me if I’m okay in a tone of voice that makes me want to open their mouths and shove tennis balls down their throats, I’ll just say I’m fine. I’m fine. Dandy. Wonderful. Freaking Fantastic - and yes, I will say it with capital letters.
Before I knew it I had written my name next to his for the last time. It was a final sheet of almost blank paper with titles like “The Petitioner” and other legal jargon typed across it. As the ink slowly dried on the page, a stark black that is now forever imprinted on my mind, it hit me that very soon I would be legally divorced.
I’m 23-years-old. Aren’t I a little young for this sort of thing? My husband and I were married before our 21st birthdays. We weren’t even old enough to drink legally at our wedding, not that it mattered. I remember looking at my left hand while I sipped champagne - a ring, a band, a mark that said forever in silent desperate words. I have to admit it scared me even then.
I beat most of my friends to the altar. They followed one by one, paired up and matched up like they were ready for the Flood to start and with looks on their lovesick faces like “Where’s the damn boat?” If they aren’t married they are thinking about getting married; and if they are married they are thinking about kids. And I’m getting divorced. I’m the perpetual third wheel, or fourth - if they already have a cute drooling bundle of soggy joy.
That isn’t the worst part. The worst part is when it comes to girls’ nights out. They turn to me with sad cow eyes after talking about their kids and ask if I want kids. The word “no” rolls out so fast and hard off my tongue I swear you could clock it in at 90 miles an hour. I don’t hesitate. I don’t sit and think. I spit that word out before the god of mischief and misfortune decides to give me a surprise the next time my cycle comes around. Oops, birth control is only 98% effective and those little blue lines on the home test kits scare the crap out of me.
Article comments
1 - klondikekitty
Thank you, Katie, for speaking the words no one else has the courage to say! Although I am over twice your age and it's not the first time I have done it, divorce always hurts the one leaving nearly as much as the one who is left behind -- You want out, but you feel so guilty you almost chicken out -- You don't want to hurt him, but you don't want to be his caretaker any more -- You love him, but some days, the things he says and does make you wish he would fall off the planet -- god help a woman who wants out in today's society -- if her friends' pity doesn't kill her, the pastor of her church just might!!