I describe divorce as an out of body experience, where the team you've played on for decades is now in "man down" mode.
When I first filled out forms asking my marital status, it felt strange checking the box next to SINGLE, like a kite flying aimlessly with no one holding the string. I'd marked MARRIED for most of my adult life and never thought I'd be anything but that for the rest of my days. One part of me knew I was single, but another part felt as if the monogamous, married me was just on hiatus.
Once all the boxes were checked, though, the reality was swift: I went from coupled to the cheese stands alone, the plus one at parties and the gal who no longer had a husband to drive her to a colonoscopy.
My bff Jack stepped up soon after for that one. He was so worried he'd miss some medical jargon the doctor rattled off while I was still in a propofol haze that he secretly recorded her on his phone.
An outstanding wing man is essential in these times of transition.
Newly single, the first time I saw a middle-aged couple holding hands at the grocery store, the panic rose from my gut and into my chest, and the air around me felt wavy and uncertain. I abandoned my shopping cart, sprinted to my car and bawled so loud I was sure someone would call 911 to report the crazy lady in the parking lot. My ex and I held hands until the day we didn't, so the mere sight of someone reaching for another's hand triggered flashbacks as I heard the voice in my head say, "Nobody loves you," on repeat.
I called Pam, my only single Kansas City girlfriend, and we met for dinner where I told her my bad news. "I'm so glad I'll have you to go out on the town with when I'm ready," I said, my tears dotting the cocktail napkin under my wine glass.
"I have some news, too," she said while giving me her best sympathetic look. "I've met someone!" And just like that, with only couples left in my circle, I knew I needed to start over in my second home of Palm Springs if I wanted the best chance for a social life.
"Think outside the box, Linda," I told myself over and over as I looked for ways to fill my calendar after my move to the desert. When someone asked me to go on a hike, I grabbed my poles and laced up my boots. When I heard about a sound bath near Joshua Tree, I got all woo-woo and, fully clothed, soaked up the vibrations emanating from a dozen crystal bowls singing in unison. Diva Drag Brunch with the neighbors? Put on your platform shoes, baby!
I switched up even the tiniest of tasks, right down to hanging my toilet paper, to underscore the new me: I'd always been a "roll from the back wall" girl, but now changed to "over the top."
I was past the point where I'd reach into a closet where some of my ex's clothes still hung, pull his cashmere muffler to my nose and inhale as I tried to remember what he smelled like when I loved him. Anger no longer flushed my neck and temples when the thought of him felt like scratching a scab. My fresh start was a slow start, but I'd finally chipped away at those rocky spots hiding in the nooks and crannies where no one could see them.
As one sleepless night blended and blurred into the next, and I'd wake up with crazy clown hair from all the tossing, I prayed I would someday feel joy again.
Finally it worked.
When it did, I sang "Hotel California" at a lovely white table cloth place in Newport Beach, in harmony I might add, with one of my girlfriends as nearby diners looked on with pinched faces. And when my peeps said, "Let's go to Mexico!" I had a plane ticket to Puerto Vallarta an hour later. Did I throw back high-end tequila shots there as an elegant Frenchman lined 'em up for me at his iconic restaurant? Guilty. And I sang "Poker Face" at the top of my lungs in a cab on that same trip as the driver lurched along to the beat and through the crowded streets back to our resort.
With all that singing (who knew? I couldn't even make high school choir!), I began to feel lighter as one year turned into two, and it was as if the old Linda learned to walk the walk of a social, single woman, shedding the spare parts that had "wife" stamped on them.
One night my pal Jill invited me to join her and a friend we called the Dancing Queen, a spirited woman about two decades younger than us, who entertained folks on cruise ships in her previous career. We learned she's perpetual motion on the dance floor, with a sexy swivel and sway and dip and twirl, like a cross between a Tasmanian devil and a butterfly. Dancing also loves to swipe a little glitter on her eyelids before an evening out, so as we headed to a bar with live music, she made Jill and me close our eyes where she promptly glittered our lids within an inch of their lives.
"I don't have the heart to tell her that women over 50 don't need anything drawing attention to their eyelids," Jill whispered as we walked in.
I think the glitter worked as men seemed to look at us in a different way--they probably thought we'd escaped from a bedazzled scrapbook convention. My new suede stilettos held their own as more than one man added me to his dance card that night, and finally we gals grabbed a booth and sat down to catch our breath.
Before long, a guy who spent three seasons on the "Sopranos" asked to join us. (So Palm Springs, right? It's called a random Tuesday.) After sharing his acting credentials, he told us about his character on the show, who eventually took a bullet in the head from that weasel Paulie Walnuts. We nodded, as if mourning his unfortunate end.
"So, do you girls have husbands?" he asked in a charming way.
"There are no F***ing husbands here," I said leaning in close so he could hear me over the music.
He just smiled and said, "Great! You girls are gorgeous," and seemed to mean it as he asked each of us to dance, riding the wave of fun we'd created all night.
And with that, I glimpsed my future.
To the beat of the congas and thrum of the guitar, the band played a throwback, "You Got Me Begging for Mercy." The former mafia guy led me into the crowd and began dancing, sliding one hand across my back, while his other reached out to catch me as I spun around and around to the music.
By song's end, a thin line of sweat trickled between my shoulder blades, and I was laughing out loud and felt a little dizzy from all the spinning. My skin prickled with a jolt of energy I hadn't experienced in years. I was ready for whatever the universe had in store for me.
But best of all?
I was still standing.