Game On

I have worked all day.

I have fretted for an hour at the doctors office.

I have had my pig-roasted-over-spit foot poked, drained, scraped, turned in every direction (hello, hip replacement) doused with God-only-knows-what and then bandaged. And jammed back into a fuzzy black sock and a shoe, thank you.

I look like Hell. I feel like I have just returned from Hell.

And now I get to see Lars. My nemesis. The man who would relish every minute I spend in pain and suffering. The man who privately rejoices my every bout with economic frailty, who turns a cartwheel every time a man exits my life, who plays the lottery every time the Homeownership Gremlins leave my basement filled with water, my toilet in disrepair or a gutter dangling at a right angle from the roof. Yippee.

I decide that I have had enough of my Limping Nun outfit. I take the stairs two at a time to go upstairs to change. I put on freshly laundered pajamas and a hoodie. No one needs to see me braless in my PJs. I sweep my hair into a clip, brush my teeth, freshen my face with a little powder and gloss, and then yes, wash the black fuzzies off my feet and put lotion on them so I don't actually appear to be disintegrating.

And why do I care what Lars thinks of my feet? Or how I look? I ran screaming from our marriage without a glance in the rear view mirror and have regretted nothing about leaving. Ever. For one second. Why on Earth would his impression of me now matter? Why is it important?

I guess it is this: As much as he has relished every successful attempt to destroy, belittle, marginalize and humiliate me, I have rallied to stand tall, succeed, take things in stride and to rise to every challenge.

Divorce at the age of 42? So what? Lose weight, get in shape, look like a million bucks and buy all new clothes that announce that I have returned to glory and I am bringing sexy back with me!

His friends take his side and turn their backs on me? I find new friends everywhere I look. Friends who would never be the kind of people who just walk away from a lifetime of friendship. And the tried and true friends have stepped up their game, too.

Boyfriend dumps me? Find a new one. A better looking one with a house at the beach and a body that won't quit. Who is younger than Lars.

Lose my job? Get a better one. A dream job. One that the kids are proud of.

So now, just because I am having a problem, I don't want to show my cards and look like I don't actually have my shit in a nice neat pile. I want to keep up appearances. I want to look like "Blister, schmister. I have better things to do than worry about a little old gangrene."

And here he comes up the stairs to my front door. Game time.