This week I had a terrible cold or maybe it was the flu. But it was the type of illness that slams you down with a vengeance, like the paw of a rather large bear, swiping away any energy you might have thought you had and sending you, post haste, to your bed. While lying there, I wished to God I had someone who could nurse me back to health, but being a single gal these days, I had to rely solely on myself and the stash of canned soup and somewhat stale saltines I keep on hand for just such an occasion. If only my dogs had opposable thumbs, I thought in vain, or if only I were still married, I wailed into my pillow, I wouldn’t have to be my own damn nurse.
You know the romance is gone when your husband buys you flannel pajamas for your birthday. Yes, it’s cold and you live in a big drafty house, which he hasn’t been making any warmer lately, but how does he expect you to get the home- fires burning while sporting a pair of blue and white checked pj’s and the big floppy slippers that are probably in the other box?
Nothing says “I’ll be staying home tonight washing my hair” like flannel. Might as well just microwave a huge bowl of popcorn and settle in for a rousing night with the TV guide and the remote control, ready to snuggle in later with a good book, a cup of hot tea and the cat. That’s what flannel says to me.
Thirteen months ago I began this journey of divorce. I didn't think I could do this in the beginning. I remember thinking a few months into it that I couldn't wait until a year had passed so I would maybe have answers as to where my life was going. I wondered what my feelings would be about my now Ex, or would he wake up and we would find our way back together. Well, a year came and went, and I am more settled, emotionally.
I am not sure where my life is going, but I have goals and am working toward them without feeling crushed everyday. For the most part I am happy. I miss being married. I miss the man I fell in love with, but I do not miss who he became. Things do get better. The problem with divorce, or one of them, is that you cannot really be settled in a years time. Too many things to deal with to get divorced, then the things that go after a divorce, financial and so on, so that you are always dealing with the Ex.
Divorce is hard enough, but divorce for a SAHM (Stay-At-Home-Mom) can be even more challenging, as you've given your life to your family and husband for so many years and often gave up your own career aspirations. When divorce occurs, you're suddenly confronted with having to figure out how to support yourself and family, and re-enter the workforce feeling you don't have the necessary skills to survive and succeed.
One of our members (A SAHM) recently reached out for help on the social network and the responses from the community were incredibly supportive and insightful, so we thought we highlight some of the collective advice for the community at large (anonymously of course).
“You have a hair!” he shrieked. From his tone of voice, one might have thought he’d seen a zombie from ‘Night of the Living Dead’ heading right for him. “You have a hair!” he repeated vehemently, as if I were hearing-aid dependent. “Growing out of your face. Right there!”
I was wounded by his obvious dislike of the hair so I paused before answering to give the moment a bit of drama. “Well thank you for informing me,” I uttered in a less-than-thankful tone “I’ll pluck it.” He nodded in a manner suggesting that sooner would be preferable to later.
While digging through my make-up bag in search of the tweezers, I began to ponder the conversation of a moment ago. Why was I so put out when my husband drew attention to the coarse, black, ugly hair that had sprouted forth, full grown, from my face? At least it wasn’t gray and curly too. But it was quite long and had mysteriously sprouted sometime between breakfast and the cocktail hour. (How is such a thing possible?)
I will never be thin enough to please my husband. He wants me to look like the bony, anorexic women who prance across the screen of our Plasma he watches, 8 hours a day. (It’s like he thinks it’s his second job.) When I point out that he’s comparing me — a real, three-dimensional-flesh-and-blood woman — to the impossible standard the media has brainwashed him with, he dismisses my idea completely.
Is he kidding or am I married to a man who’s really that stupid and shallow?
He devours hour upon hour of programming that features perfectly lit, digitally enhanced, starved, young bodies that have been painted, polished and coifed to within an inch of their lives and then when he looks at me he thinks, "What is wrong with this picture?" He can deny it all day long, but the shocked expression on his face is a dead giveaway and though he’d never admit it out loud, deep down I know he believes that if I were as thin and beautiful as his two-dimensional dream-dates, his life would be perfect.
Let's talk about weight, shall we? Yeah, yeah, we're all writing and commenting and visiting this wonderfully supportive site, and we're sharing our thoughts, fears, concerns, hopes and dreams. But what about our bodies?
What wonderful changes can you expect when you move beyond divorce? Hmmm, let's see. Depends, really. Some women who become depressed stop eating altogether. Some eat constantly. Some drink. Some go searching for random acts of sexual contact. I did a bit of drinking the first year, and that coupled with fast food, as I was sad and unwilling to cook (which I think is a happy act) allowed my body to find new mass.
Lovely. Weight gain. My favorite thing. Yours, too, I just bet.
But rather than dwelling on the negative right off the bat, let's start, instead, with the positive. As a 50-year-old woman, a little extra fat in the face makes Botox something completely unnecessary. So, think of it as a free face lift compliments of Ritz crackers, squirt cheese and Tabasco olives, French fries, and sweet tea by the gallons.
