And the Beat Goes On

So – life without J. More or less.

Seems like a lot more less than more.

Considering I began to date J. - if you could really call it dating – back when I was in the worst, most embattled part of my divorce proceeding. Where Lars was saying “I’m going to take the kids, the house and all of your money” and I was saying, “Over my rotting carcass you will!” but privately whimpering that he might just get away with it if I didn’t fire my lawyer and get a better one. One with a big pair of brass balls and maybe an ax to grind against men. A woman scorned, ideally.

And I’d just cleared a few post-marital hurdles that were huge. For me, anyway.

I’d been sent and had accepted for myself only, an invitation to a birthday party. A grown up birthday party. Not that I hadn’t been to a few gigs by myself in the past. The difference here was, that the invitation was intended for me alone, and I’d RSVPed without considering anyone else’s needs and put it on the calendar so that Lars would know the date was taken. And I’d not had to make an excuse about a babysitter cancelling or some unfortunate conflict to explain away Lars’ absence. Liberating.

And I’d been invited on a trip – a fabulous trip – with a bunch of gal pals. Invited to board a plane and to fly across the nation to a beautiful resort to enjoy the sun and the spa and the cocktails on the coattails of one of my most colorful friends who’d won the trip as a bonus. And in spite of my less ballsy, not-quite-yet-fired lawyer’s warning that more than likely I’d come home to find the locks to my house changed and all my belongings on the front lawn exposed to the elements, I’d booked the flight, packed the bag, and embarked on a trip I frequently refer to wistfully as our Rock Star Vacation.

And I’d gone on a date or two – if they really qualify as dates by definition – with a total cretin. Looked good on paper, a disaster in person. Cheap, rude, inconsiderate, inattentive. But while I was figuring out all that, he’d gotten me to “get my girl on.” Dust off the features I’d forgotten I’d once had – Not Miss America, but not bad looking. The ability to put together a subject and a verb and hold up my end of an intelligent or humorous conversation. A decent figure that didn’t scream “Gave birth twice.” A unique sense of style: well north of Mom Jeans but not Lady Gaga. And gosh, even a reasonably informed opinion or two. Even if he wasn’t worth the effort, I’d gotten up off the bench and taken my place in the huddle.

I’d systematically gone through the closet and tossed anything that did not fit my dwindling frame (whittled down to a lithe size zero on the Marital Discord Diet). I spent countless lunch hours prowling the racks of Loehmann’s and Daffy’s and any place that has tons of high end, end of season stuff that no one else will be wearing. (Sorry Talbots, but I’d sooner die than step into a meeting wearing the same tweed jacket that another colleague is wearing. Even the discovery that it resides in any closet other than my own makes it kindling for my next fire pit blaze.) I tried on styles I’d never thought to take into the dressing room before. I was quite pleased with some of the discoveries I’d made.

I’d pitched all the dowdy pajamas – chucked the shapeless ones in favor of flattering ones – the flannel for the fun. Just for me. Lingerie and pretty undies from the marital years, gone. Enough said. Replaced with new and improved fabulousness.

Shoes. Imelda Marcos has nothing on me. I’ve always enjoyed them and now the sexier the better. I nearly had to hire a closet organizer for the shoes alone. Boots. Heels. Peep toes. Sling backs. In volume. The more frivolous the better.

All for me.

Until there was J.