It was hard, I tell you, getting out of bed at 5:00 a.m. on a chilly morning. But the prospect of a (new) pet stain on my rented carpet was a pretty good motivator.
I managed to rise, grumbling, in time to let the cat out without incident. But then the dogs were awake and apparently eager to see the big snowfall.
Living in the subtropics for the last 20 years, I hadn’t seen much snow and hadn’t really missed it; I don’t care for the cold. But since, post-divorce, I moved back to where that kind of thing happens, I’ve invested heavily in long underwear and tried not to whine too much.
After pulling on sweats and scarf and coat and boots and gloves, I followed the dogs through the back door. They’ve seen a couple of minor snows since we’ve been here, but nothing like this. I chuckled as they bounded around in six inches, sticking their faces in to taste it, pounding the smooth, icy blanket into a mess of trails and paw prints.
“What is your married name?” a woman asked shortly after I acquired a husband.
“Sondra Simmons,” I replied. She looked quizzically at me for a moment, then said, “Oh, I see. You didn’t change it.”
I was 40 at the time. “This name has served me well all my life,” I said.
She nodded. “And, not saying this will happen to you, I hope it doesn’t, but if you get divorced you don’t have to go through the hassle of changing it back.”
I remembered the conversation after reading Alice Brooks’ account of reclaiming her name. It wasn’t like I was making a statement by “keeping” my name; I just couldn’t think of a reason to go through the hassle of changing it.
My house is under contract. I’m finding my home harder to let go of than my husband.
I guess that makes sense. The house was a better investment and often a better companion than Edgar was when he was drinking.
Plus, the house is mine. I bought it before I got married. I’ve thought how much buying that place was like getting married, actually; I searched for years before finding just the right house to commit to, and as closing day approached I asked myself repeatedly if it was the right decision.
Over the years my relationship with the house deepened as I’d hoped my marriage would. I loved it more as time passed and I found I could depend on it to shelter me from the elements, even the angry ones like hurricanes; hold all my stuff; and get me tax breaks. I was able to relax and be myself in the house, and when Ed moved in there was room for him to do the same.
I heard a woman say the other day that she’s been feeling like Superwoman since her husband’s stroke. She’s had to do all kinds of new things, like handle their bills and make small repairs around their home.
I understood where she was coming from. Trouble has a way of tossing that red cape around our shoulders and making us capable of amazing feats.
Divorcing my husband, Edgar, was probably the heaviest lifting I’ve ever done, emotionally speaking. I had to get rid of my guilt over breaking my vows, the guilt he heaped on me for the same, my fears of economic insecurity and loneliness, worries about what family, friends, and strangers would think.
And now, I’m calling on my newfound strength to handle a sort of eviction of a good friend.
Robin was strapped for cash, so I let her stay rent-free in my mostly empty house, now for sale. The plan was for her to house-sit until it sells – whenever that is.
My boyfriend, Jack, and I were walking out of our favorite barbecue restaurant, fat and happy, when someone behind me said, "Is your name Sondra?"
I stopped, turned, said, "Yes," and didn't recognize the bleached blonde with multiple piercings. I squinted at her for a minute; sometimes that helps me bring a face from long ago into focus, but not this time.
I gave up and asked, "Who are you?"
"Juanita," she said.
I frowned, then remembered. "Juanita Watson?! Ohh!" I squealed and gave her a hug. That surprised me as much as it did her; we'd never been each other's favorite.
I guess my brother was right about classmates being glad to see each other in later life, if only for the recognition of another survivor.
"Juanita grew up in the neighborhood, too," I explained to Jack, whom she barely acknowledged.
"You look good," I told her, thinking she seemed more relaxed, perhaps happier than back in the day.
Last time I told you about my new ambition, to become a grocery store cashier. Maybe you want something like that, too, for the health insurance that goes with the position, as well as the wee stipend for stuff like rent, pet food, and gas for the car.
I was surprised to find no line of hopefuls wrapped around the store when I arrived shortly after sunrise, but a steady stream presented itself: men as well as women, some my age, some young enough to be my children.
I found myself hoping that the polite young man who got there just as I did would get the job, or that it might go to the young woman with the beautiful smile who held the heavy door back for us to enter as she exited. These kids need a good job with benefits, I thought. It could be a great start for them.
Maybe that's why I, uh, forgot to mention my previous cashiering experience on the application. Or maybe it was because I really just don't want to be a cashier again.
Imagine.
Never expected to be doing that now, as a 48-year-old divorcée. Never expected to be a 48-year-old divorcée.
I don't drink. It took a long time and some hard knocks to teach me that I just ought not consume alcohol, because my life is better when I don't.
But New Year's Eve is a good time for me to remember that.
It's pretty simple. I know there is nothing I can't make worse by adding alcohol to it. But the idea that one doesn't drink, ever, can be really difficult for people to grasp because drinking is such a huge part of life in these United States.
Big events are easy. I secure a glass of ginger ale or cola as soon as I arrive. When I have something in my hand, there's no reason for anybody to try to put a drink there, and I've never had anybody make a big deal of the fact that I'm abstaining from alcohol.
When I attend a more intimate affair, I bring sparkling cider or juice so I‘m sure there's something I‘ll enjoy.
But at either type of gathering, if the nonalcoholic drinks run out, if the shenanigans of the drinkers get to be a bit much, or if I find myself wanting a drink, I thank my hostess and leave.
