Iâ€™m getting a divorce. For whatever reason Iâ€™ve decided to call it quits. The reason doesnâ€™t matter. Okay, thatâ€™s a giant lie; but letâ€™s just pretend that it doesnâ€™t matter. Letâ€™s say no one was at fault, that my marriage just didnâ€™t work out.
â€śThatâ€™s how the cookie crumblesâ€ť 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 Iâ€™m okay in a tone of voice that makes me want to open their mouths and shove tennis balls down their throats, Iâ€™ll just say Iâ€™m fine. Iâ€™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 â€śThe Petitionerâ€ť 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.
Iâ€™m 23-years-old. Arenâ€™t I a little young for this sort of thing? My husband and I were married before our 21st birthdays. We werenâ€™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 â€śWhereâ€™s the damn boat?â€ť If they arenâ€™t married they are thinking about getting married; and if they are married they are thinking about kids. And Iâ€™m getting divorced. Iâ€™m the perpetual third wheel, or fourth - if they already have a cute drooling bundle of soggy joy.
That isnâ€™t the worst part. The worst part is when it comes to girlsâ€™ nights out. They turn to me with sad cow eyes after talking about their kids and ask if I want kids. The word â€śnoâ€ť rolls out so fast and hard off my tongue I swear you could clock it in at 90 miles an hour. I donâ€™t hesitate. I donâ€™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.