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.
I think I want to become a cashier. In yesterday's classifieds I found an ad seeking Cashiers — yes, with a capital C. One of the grocery stores I frequent is looking for cashiers (who also will get to stock shelves and clean floors) to start at $10.80 per hour.
That's a lot more than I made last time I was a cashier.
This company appears to treat its workers better than everybody I cashiered for in my misspent youth, too. The people at the registers sit in chairs and customers bag their own purchases.
But, and this is what really got my attention, employees are eligible for insurance covering medical, dental, and vision after 90 days.
Wow. That would've been enough to get me excited, but wait, there's more: The company also offers a retirement income plan and 401(k), paid vacation after six months — and an extra dollar an hour for working on Sundays, when they don't open until noon.
"Who is he?" the Good Doctor asked me about Jack, my new man. I looked at her quizzically. "Where have you seen this person before?" she said. "He must remind you of someone in your past for you to be so comfortable with him so quickly."
Oh. We'd agreed that my ex, Edgar, was my father. (Yikes!)
I thought for a moment (one of the very expensive moments that come in a 50-minute hour) and drew a blank.
"Nobody," I said. "He doesn't remind me of anybody else."
He was far more honest and open than the other men this sick puppy had been involved with. And he was eager to help me with pretty much anything — something else I'd never seen a lot.
I concluded that he was different from all who had come before, which made him ideal.
There are none so blind as those who will not see...
Jack and I have been together for months now, and I think I've figured out who he is: both of my controlling parents.
I started dating before my divorce was final. Maybe you did too, so maybe you don't think I'm going to hell.
I don't know if my father thinks that's what will happen, but he certainly wasn't happy about my behavior. Initially, I understood his concern: my new relationship might cause problems as I ended the old one.
But it turns out that Florida, despite its backwardness in many other areas, is remarkably enlightened about divorce. Under Florida law, there are only two reasons to end a marriage: the irretrievable breakdown of the marriage, or the mental incapacity of one of the spouses. Under Florida law, I learned that, as a rule, adultery doesn't enter into the equation.
If, say, I had exhausted the marital assets on trips to Fiji for the boyfriend and me, the court probably would have frowned on that. But since the two alcoholics in my marriage had already exhausted most of their assets, I saw no risk.
I was in the sock section of the men's department the other night, perusing the rows of dark knitted things, when I remembered I had no reason to be there.
All through our marriage, I had bought Edgar socks and underwear for Christmas. I'd get him something more interesting, too, but always socks and underwear because he was hell on those. It was like he could wear them out just by looking at them.
This year, I hope someone will buy my ex some socks. I am tempted to get him some, out of habit, and because I'm sure he needs them, but will refrain.
Buying those socks — bags, bundles, three-packs, an occasional single pair — was one of my wifely duties. I found surprising satisfaction in seeing to it that Ed's heels and toes were covered inside his shoes. It was the kind of thing he couldn't be bothered with, and I was good at. Isn't that one of the things marriage is about?
The Good Doctor says I liked being married. I guess she's right. Obviously I'm pretty sentimental about those dang socks. But you know what? A month into it, I seem to like being divorced, too.
