Episode 34: Condition of Woman I

Episode 34: Condition of Woman I

Mimi Schmir, one of the writers from "Grey's Anatomy"

Posted to Hot Flashes by Mimi Schmir on Sat, 01/09/2010 - 8:54am

I’ve never been that big on anniversaries. Well, let me put it another way. Jeffrey was never that big on anniversaries and so I guess I picked that little bad habit up from him. He said he didn’t want us to be like everybody else. That holidays of any kind were a Hallmark construct and that he sure as hell wasn’t buying in. He refused to get me flowers on Valentine’s day and when my birthday rolled around, if I wasn’t buying myself a piece of bling you could be damn sure no one else was either. As far as our wedding anniversary — well, it goes without saying.

So — imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning and realized that it was more or less one year ago that I found the “Bat Phone.” You remember don’t you? Innocent me, opening Jeffrey’s sock drawer, only to find the red iPhone with the Concubine’s number programmed in? (Lesson number one. Don’t get in the habit of putting away your husband’s clean socks and underwear. It can only lead to trouble.) Anyhoo, this morning I realized that through no fault of my own I was celebrating an anniversary. In fact, it was almost one year ago today that I started down the slippery slope to singledom. In honor of this momentous occasion, I stopped at Starbucks for a double soy milk no foam, grande latte, programmed my divorce attorney into my speed dial and drove Mr. Handsome up to school.

When I got up there I was already pretty caffeine-fueled which in retrospect, made the whole back-to-school experience a hell of a lot easer. (At least, easier for me. I’m not sure how well my mile-a-minute chatter went over with the rest of the moms, although I suspect they were all too busy looking at the tan line on my noticeably ring-free ring finger.) Mr. Handsome scooted ahead of me pulling his Spiderman backpack on wheels, so happy to be back with other seven-year-olds that he barely remembered I was there. (This may have something to do with the fact that I so rarely am. I am going to work on the “bad mommy” thing this year.”)

Admittedly, a lot has changed in the last year and I can’t say I knew exactly how to present my new-found single-ey status. Now that an entire summer has passed, the lack of a wedding ring is the least of it. So I’m standing there in the courtyard, not sure what to do with myself, and Angelina sidles up next to me. (Angelina is a pseudonym. I call her that because she is drop-dead gorgeous and has a brood of multi-ethnic children not unlike her namesake, you-know-who.) “Esme, you look fantastic,” she purrs at me. Divorce suits you.” I look at her, trying not to furrow my no-longer Botox enhanced brow. (Me being me, it turns out Botox gives me hives.) “I’m not divorced yet,” I tell her. “The whole process takes some time.” Angelina shrugs, like this is of little consequence. She laughs, shamelessly. “Well, I wouldn’t know, now, would I? Bradley and I just celebrated our tenth, you know.”

I nod. I do know that actually, because Angelina and her Brad (yes, his real name) had renewed their vows at a sunset ceremony in Malibu this past June. For some inexplicable reason, they had invited the entire school, but I very wisely decided not to go. (As a soon-to-be divorced chick, I now reserve the right to deal with other people’s “perfect” relationships however I damn well please.) “Congratulations, Angelina,” I say, trying not to sound bored or condescending (for some reason, I am feeling both of those things.) “Ten years, wow — that’s something pretty amazing. What’s your secret?” Angelina grins, and leans over, conspiratorial. “Blow jobs every other night, my dear. It may seem a little messy but trust me, it all comes out in the wash eventually.” She stretches out her hand languidly and I suddenly see the giant rock that is sparkling where her more tasteful (though still large) engagement ring used to be. “Wow. What’s THAT?” I say, before I can stop myself. Angelina giggles. “To the victor comes the spoils,” she trills and then kissing me on both cheeks, disappears into the crowd. I am almost positive that as she goes, she says, “Tra-la!”

I look around, a little confused. Mr. Handsome’s school is on the top of a hill that looks over the San Fernando Valley and there are fires burning in the distance. It is that time of the year, when the Santa Ana winds blow and little sparks suddenly ignite into much bigger flames. I look down at my ring finger. The rings I used to wear never meant that much to me. I was never able to admit that before. They were Tiffany’s, of course, very status quo like stick-up-his-ass Jeffrey. I had wanted something antique, something with history and a greater purpose but Jeffrey insisted that wearing someone else’s jewelry was bad luck and even worse karma. Which makes me laugh now, because if there was bad karma involved, it certainly landed on him.

I decide to take Mr. Handsome’s emergency kit to the storage unit (this is Los Angeles, and there are many potential emergencies to tend to.) I am thinking that I am much less angry than I had been. You know, that whole Elizabeth Kubler Ross thing, the stages of grief, or whatever she calls them? Well, perhaps I have ended up at acceptance. It is not so difficult to accept that your husband is an asshole when he cheats on you with prostitutes and also your best friend, so I then consider sending Jeffrey a Hallmark card of his own. (Plus I know that will really piss him off. Perhaps I am not fully at “acceptance,” only half-way there.) Anyway, I’m on my way to the emergency kit unit when I feel someone touch my hand.

I turn. It’s him.

The HBPD looks at me and smiles. “Hey, I tried to call you a couple of times after I got back from the Vineyard. But I never heard from you.” I catch myself staring at him with my mouth open. He’s tan, gorgeous as usual but his head is completely bald. “What did you do to your hair?” I squeak, like that is the most important thing I could possibly say. “You’re bald.” (DUH.) The HPBD smiles, beautifully. “I know. Do you like it?” I don’t know what to say to that one so without thinking (what a surprise) I say, “Why would you do that? You had great hair. That’s what guys do when they’re approaching a comb-over but yours was like a Persian carpet. Are you insane?” (That’s the double grande latte talking.) The HBPD smiles again, like he’s on drugs. “Actually, I did it in solidarity for a friend of mine who has cancer. His kids shaved their heads too.”

I gulp. Really. Like in the cartoons. This man is some kind of saint and I have just insulted his martyrdom. The HPBD looks at me curiously. “So why didn’t you call me back, then?” I can’t believe this. I reach out and tentatively touch his head. “Oooh. It’s soft. Like a duckling.” He laughs. “My kids are really in to it. They say I look cool.” I sigh. “Listen, I had to change my phone number. Jeffrey kept calling and it got to be too much. I didn’t realize no one else would be able to find me. Especially you.”

We look at each other. Kids are running all over the place, parents are reconnecting and there is the faint smell of smoke that permeates the air. “How are you doing?” he asks. I think about this for a second. “Better,” I tell him. “Not so angry at my ex. Not afraid all the time for sure.” He laughs. “I never thought of you as afraid.” I shrug my shoulders. “I took acting lessons at the Lee Strasberg Institute. I was an excellent student, it appears.”

By now I’ve placed Mr. Handsome’s emergency kit in the bin with all the others. It’s interesting what people think is important in an emergency. All the kids have hats and gloves and a change of clothes. But some parents have added family photos with notes. Others have art supplies, like the kids are going to do little projects while they are running away from danger. Others have astronaut type dried food snacks and then there is Mr. Handsome, who insisted, I kid you not, that I put a math workbook in his bag. The HBPD smiles. “I guess we’re all prepared for an emergency, then.” I nod, thoughtfully, and consider how I’ve already lived through an earthquake this year. “Yes, I guess we are.”

So we’re walking through the parking lot and he turns to me, curious. “How was your trip to Europe, by the way? I got your postcard. The leaning tower of Pisa. Was that symbolic?” I laugh. “Oh, it was pretty fantastic, actually. The boys had a great time. It was good for all of us to get away.” And then I remember something. I was in London and had taken the boys to the Tate Modern. It was a bit of a gamble taking them to a museum at all, but modern art often has that “slapped together by kids” aura and it seemed to suit them, (especially Roo, who has artistic tendencies, you should see his finger painting, very Rothko)...where was I? Oh, right, it seemed to suit them just fine. Anyway, we were walking through this gallery and I came across this art installation and it was called “Condition of Woman I.” Years ago I had tried to get Jeffrey to buy me a piece of art for our anniversary, I thought it would be an investment. He refused. Now, of course, I can see why.

Anyway, “Condition of Woman I,” wasn’t very complicated. (Or maybe it was, in the world of art, everything is more complicated than it seems. Kind of like life, I suppose.) So all it was, was this plexiglass box that someone had stuck on the wall and inside it was everything that might be in a woman’s bathroom trashcan. Tissues, tampons, dental floss, you get the picture. And it made me think of what I had tossed in the trash can that year (my marriage, my husband, my sanity, at least briefly) and how now, all these months later, the condition of this woman had changed.

I smile at the HBPD. “I had an epiphany at the Tate Modern in London,” I tell him. “Wow, really?” he says. “That’s pretty cool.” I nod, agreeing with him. “Yeah, it is. I suddenly realized that I had thrown a lot of unnecessary stuff in the trash. I realized that the stuff I thought was important in my life didn’t necessarily define me and that now I was prepared for any emergency. I realized my life had changed.” The HBPD says, “Sounds like a pretty good epiphany, if you ask me. Kind of liberating.” I nod. “Yes, it was,” I say.