I was married at twenty and divorced by twenty-six.
It was the eighties, the decade of Princess Diana and Madonna, and it seemed everyone was doing it—getting married young and divorcing.
Even my best friend at the time shocked me when she suddenly filed for divorce. When someone close to you calls it quits you take a magnifying glass to your relationship, searching for the cracks. No need to look very close, ours was shattered to bits; held together with spit and glue.
I have to admit; in the beginning her divorce left me appalled! But after a while, I saw how happy they both became and that’s when it finally dawned on me that deep down my husband was probably as miserable as I was, and so I decided that for the sake of the continued happiness of us both—we could not stay married for one. more. minute.
NOBODY LIKES A QUITTER
It was impossible to paint a picture of my ex as an insufferable troll.
People understand when you divorce a man who is a cheater, an addict, or someone who can’t hold a job. It wasn’t him it was me. That line is cliché I know, but some sayings become clichés because they’re so damn true!
My ex-husband was/is one of the nicest men on the planet and that sucks even more. I left an all around great guy because I yearned for something more.
“More than what?” my dad asked upon hearing that I wanted a divorce. “What more could you possibly want? It doesn’t seem like anyone can make you happy!” He was right about that. That was my job, only I didn’t know it at the time.
I only knew that something profoundly wonderful was missing. Something…untenable, indescribable and indefinable—and I wasn’t able or willing to settle.
That made me feel greedy. And wrong.
Other people settle. Why can’t I? It would be so much easier!
God, I had so much to learn! I had gone from living under my father’s roof to living under my husband’s. I identified as someone’s wife. Until I wasn’t.
HIDDEN BENEFITS
I would say the biggest benefit was becoming comfortable with my independence. I had been half of a couple, a team, and now every decision, every mistake, was mine alone. I needed to figure out who I was and what I wanted from life, and in the process I was forced to become comfortable living without a man.
When there was a creepy sound in the middle of the night who checked it out? Me and my trusty baseball bat.
I started taking some risks, teaching myself how to invest money. I bought stocks and bonds, which scared the shit out of my dad, but ended up rewarding my courage with great returns.
I also became skilled at all manner of apartment maintenance and eventually acquired a power drill and a small, red toolbox. Woof!
DATING
I had a hard time with the label divorcee. Every form I filled out asked me my marital status and checking the DIVORCED box reminded that I had failed at one of life’s most cherished milestones.
In my twenties.
Guys aren’t sure what to make of a twenty-six year old divorcee.
No wild-eyed desperation or ticking time clock here. Some of them acted relieved. Many seemed a bit bewildered. Truth be told, it scared the bejesus out of most of them.
I don’t know where all the other twenty-something divorcees went to date—but in my circle, I was as rare as a Unicorn.
A twenty-six year old divorced Unicorn.
TRANSITION IN MY THIRTIES
Once I realized, much to the amazement of my single girlfriends, this controversial fact: that most of the men out there really did want to get married and have babies; and that a divorcee was way too much of a wild card for them at that stage of the game—I was able to formulate a game plan.
I dyed my blonde hair red, which narrowed the field even further. Only serious, artsy guys need apply.
I decided that unless I met someone extraordinary, marriage and children would probably not be a reality for me; and except for about a month when I was thirty-three and everyone around me was having babies—I was more than okay with that.
I made a great life for myself. I had a career I loved; great friends, wonderful family and I made foreign travel my passion.
That all felt amazing. Until it didn’t.
EVEN UNICORNS GET A SECOND CHANCE
After I turned forty, stability became my middle name. I settled down, bought a house in the burbs, let my hair grow longer and went back to being a blonde.
I started dating. A lot. I told anyone who had a friend with a pulse that I was looking to settle down. I was finally ready to share my life.
Eighteen unmarried years had gone by and men my age and older couldn’t have cared less that I got divorced in my twenties. Seriously. Most of them were on their second or even third divorce.
I was no longer an anomaly, an outsider.
I decided to go on a blind dating binge and that’s how I met the extraordinary man I married at forty-three—he was definitely worth the wait.
At last I found that indescribable, indefinable something I’d spent nearly two decades searching for—and he found me.
Isn’t timing everything? Ain’t love grand? Maybe it was greed. I don’t know; I think it was all just dumb luck.
We all know how lucky Unicorns can be.
photo credit: http://therealbenhopper.com/index.php?/projects/naked-girls-with-masks/
