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It was less than twenty minutes into our meeting when my realtor had me married to one of the doctors I get referrals from, traveling the world, and probably living in a giant house in Winnetka. Sold to us by her, of course.
The first time I talk to anyone about the pending divorce, the reactions are priceless. I still dread trying to answer "What happened?" and "How are you?" with the mythical, perfect combination of brief, thorough and positive. But I am starting to look forward to the reactions, in a purely anthropological way. The range is instructive, and, more even than a catastrophic illness, it reveals who is a stand-in-the-fire next to you kind of friend. I have those, to my delight.
There is A., who shocked me a little with her reaction: "Now you can have a 3-way if you want!" but soon won me over with her unshakeable conviction that this is the blow that will crack my earthly shell and reveal the Goddess who was there all along.
There is my surrogate Jewish mother, who let me come to her home on the Sabbath, the day he moved out. She took me and my brokenness and uncontrolled crying and did that thing loving moms and dear friends are so good at-- She brought me tissues until I was done crying and brought me food until I was strong enough to return to my newly empty home.
There is lovely C., in a far away city, so clearly wanting to be nearby. She took moments away from her move and her family to Skype with me, gently advising me to take note of myself and how I really am in the midst of all my planned distractions.
S., on the far side of the country, who used her special brand of firm compassion to remind me to stand up for myself.
J., my friend and mentor, also far away, who makes me feel smart even as I feel my mind is slipping. She lets me show weakness, but won't let me get away with less than I am capable of.
N., my co-worker, who helped me believe the guy who called me a "sexy goofball" was not mistaken about the first part.
And, most fortunately, my parents. My mother who helps me to protect myself and lets me know that capital-H Home is always an option. My father who texts me every day to tell me he loves me. Both of them carefully following my lead about how they should think of my ex. They loved him too, after all.
So, despite the random realtor who means well but misses the mark, or acquaintances who choose to think this, like a bad case of stomach flu, will pass by, I find that those closest to me are living up to that closeness. They have built a wall for me to hide behind while I fall apart, and when I am ready, they will turn around and put me back together again. We are a closed secret society, and our mission code name is: Operaton Sexy Goofball.
The first time I talk to anyone about the pending divorce, the reactions are priceless. I still dread trying to answer "What happened?" and "How are you?" with the mythical, perfect combination of brief, thorough and positive. But I am starting to look forward to the reactions, in a purely anthropological way. The range is instructive, and, more even than a catastrophic illness, it reveals who is a stand-in-the-fire next to you kind of friend. I have those, to my delight.
There is A., who shocked me a little with her reaction: "Now you can have a 3-way if you want!" but soon won me over with her unshakeable conviction that this is the blow that will crack my earthly shell and reveal the Goddess who was there all along.
There is my surrogate Jewish mother, who let me come to her home on the Sabbath, the day he moved out. She took me and my brokenness and uncontrolled crying and did that thing loving moms and dear friends are so good at-- She brought me tissues until I was done crying and brought me food until I was strong enough to return to my newly empty home.
There is lovely C., in a far away city, so clearly wanting to be nearby. She took moments away from her move and her family to Skype with me, gently advising me to take note of myself and how I really am in the midst of all my planned distractions.
S., on the far side of the country, who used her special brand of firm compassion to remind me to stand up for myself.
J., my friend and mentor, also far away, who makes me feel smart even as I feel my mind is slipping. She lets me show weakness, but won't let me get away with less than I am capable of.
N., my co-worker, who helped me believe the guy who called me a "sexy goofball" was not mistaken about the first part.
And, most fortunately, my parents. My mother who helps me to protect myself and lets me know that capital-H Home is always an option. My father who texts me every day to tell me he loves me. Both of them carefully following my lead about how they should think of my ex. They loved him too, after all.
So, despite the random realtor who means well but misses the mark, or acquaintances who choose to think this, like a bad case of stomach flu, will pass by, I find that those closest to me are living up to that closeness. They have built a wall for me to hide behind while I fall apart, and when I am ready, they will turn around and put me back together again. We are a closed secret society, and our mission code name is: Operaton Sexy Goofball.
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