Page 18 of Single-Minded
“You just don’t want to sleep with me,” I say.
“I miss sleeping with you,” he says. “I just don’t want to have sex with you.” I feel myself deflating and he speedily corrects himself, “Not just you, any woman.”
“Aw, thanks.” I sigh. “That makes a girl feel special.”
“Put it this way,” he laughs, “of all the women in the world I don’t want to have sex with, you’re the one I find most attractive.”
“That’s no good,” I say. “That’s like saying ‘of all the blow-up dolls in the world,’ or ‘of all the sheep in the world…’”
“You’re beautiful,” he says, “and you have gorgeous hair and you’re a force of nature; you’re smart and funny and the best person in the whole world to hang out with. And I can personally guarantee that there are thousands of men in the world who would be delighted to have sex with you.”
“You won’t lose me,” I say, snuggling into his familiar arms. As for the thousands of men willing to have sex with me, I’ll have to pass on that. After Dr. Creepy and Ferret Guy, I may never date again.
Michael and I decide to try to get the divorce stuff out of the way as quickly and inexpensively as possible. I’m still in shock some days and trying to get my head around the fact that life as I’ve known it is over, but I also know that stalling won’t change anything.
He proposes we keep our own retirement accounts, and split the investment account and our savings account fifty-fifty. This is a better deal for me because my retirement account is about twice what his is. And screw him, I deserve it. I’ve been socking away money in my IRA since I was sixteen and had my first job mixing malts at Custard’s Last Stand. Plus, I earn more than he does—a thought that now gives me a modicum of glee.
I lay on the guilt about the fact that he has killed my chances of ever having a baby with his bullshit and lies, and demand five sperm donations from him to be frozen by a local fertility clinic for my future use. Michael is brilliant, ambitious, healthy, great-looking, and funny. Not to mention the hair. There are still days I’m so furious I can barely look him in the eye, but I’m a planner and I don’t want to find myself single and staring down thirty-five with no hope in sight for motherhood. How many eggs do I have left? I wonder. Is there a person I can hire to count them? An eggologist, or something? Does being on the pill for the last ten years mean I have a few hundred extra, since it prevents you from ovulating? Or do they spoil like old yogurt?
If I’m going the frozen spermsicle route, I’d rather the donor be Michael than some anonymous Ivy League law student I pick out of a catalog. I’d rather cover my bases. And my eggs. He agrees, which is a little surprising. But maybe not. Michael always wanted kids. Maybe he’s covering his bases too.
I’m keeping the house. The only thing he asks for is the rest of his clothing and the garage full of sports memorabilia that he’s been collecting pretty much since birth, a few personal items, and a red leather chaise from our living room that he’s always loved and I’ve always hated. I’m glad he wants it. Otherwise, it will be the first thing I put on Craigslist.
Darcy and Samantha take me out for a spa day and dinner while Michael goes to the house to clear out the rest of his clothes, his sports stuff, and the ugly chaise. I’ve finally come to terms with all of this, but I can’t bear to watch him pack.
Because he just throws everything in the boxes and he doesn’t label anything.
What kind of sick person does that?
Darcy, Samantha, and I sit together in a cluster of pedicure chairs, sipping pink champagne. It’s kind of tart and frothy, like it maybe came out of a box. Or a soda machine.
“More champagne?” asks the attendant.
“Yes, please,” I say, holding out my glass.
“Are you doing okay?” asks Samantha. “Do you want to talk about Michael moving out? Or the divorce?”
“We’re having fun,” says Darcy, “don’t bring that crap up.”
“No,” I say, gulping down the rest of the champagne in my glass before the attendant brings me a refill. “I’m talked out. I’ve made a decision. I am not going to let this messed-up situation ruin my life. Screw that. He’s gay, I’m still reasonably attractive. I’m going to get my ass back out in the world, meet somebody great,somebody who likes women this time,and get the happily-ever-after I’m entitled to. I’m going to rebuild my life, grow my business, finally learn how to play bass guitar. This is not going to ruin my life. I’m taking my story back.”
“Cheers to that,” says Darcy, raising her glass to me. “It’s about freaking time.”
“Damned right you’re reasonably attractive. Cheers!” says Samantha, and the three of us stretch to clink glasses awkwardly over Darcy’s pedicure chair. A little sloshes out of Darcy’s glass and onto the vibrating faux leather chair.
“Hopefully this stuff’s not flammable,” she cracks.
“I wouldn’t count on it.” I laugh.
A week later Michael and I meet at an attorney friend’s office to sign the papers, and the lawyer tells us we’ll be divorced as soon as the judge sets a date for a hearing. Apparently, when you agree on everything, your marriage can be dissolved in a matter of minutes.
15
Michael shows up for our divorce wearing black leather pants. Our marriage does not end as so many do on the courthouse steps, but with one final bash at the home we owned together.
It was my brilliant idea, the divorce party. Everyone keeps saying how Zen I am, how grown-up it is that I’ve moved on and forgiven Michael, and holds me up like I’m the poster girl for mental health and awesomeness. That’s sort of what I was going for.
The only problem is, once the invitations went out, I found myself anxious, filled with dread, and wishing I’d never thought of it in the first place. And now I’m stuck.
