I don’t really know how I got to this place. That’s a lie. I got here all by myself. I am 53 years old. I am the mother of two very beautiful boys. I am the ex-wife of a very complicated and unhappy man.
Once upon a time, a respectable 53 year old woman was done raising her children and embarking on her second career. I was a late bloomer… very late. I had my children when I was almost 40. I will be sixty years old when my baby graduates from High School. Depressed yet? Don’t be. I waited. I waited till I was ready. Well, you’re never really ready. But I did hold out for true love. For the sparks and the fireworks and the throbbing in my vagina. And I got it all, and then some.
Marriage. Women spend their entire life preparing for it. As little girls we act out our weddings over and over again. We plan the ceremony, reception and even the honeymoon for decades. You would think that by the time it actually arrives we would be ready. Everything would be perfect. Down to the cake. I dreamt of my death by chocolate cake with white butter cream frosting, tiered over my head, for 36 years. Imagine my surprise on my wedding day when we cut into that perfect white icing only to find white cake inside.
Well duh! NOTHING IS PERFECT. Usually it is the opposite of perfect. It is the hardest thing that you will ever do. Marriage & children. But that is life. And we can live it, or spend our years bitching. I choose both.
Hi, my name is Jo, and I am a victim. A victim of circumstance. A victim of my parents. A victim of my sisters. A victim of all my girlfriends. A victim of every man who ever dared to be attracted to me. A victim of that poor guy I cut off this morning. A victim of myself. Don’t misunderstand. I don’t blame any of these people. A good martyr never does. And I am one of the best.
So back to the question I first posed, how did I get here? Well, you may ask, where am I? I am in a bit of a dilemma here. The nice big and juicy kind we martyrs love to be enmeshed in… we live for them actually.
I actually began writing this four years ago… before the word blog was in anyone’s vocabulary. It is amazing how little everything has changed and at the same time how outrageous a situation the whole thing has unraveled into. The story, funny and tragic, heartwarming and sad, is a cross between a bad TV movie and a brilliant novel, or maybe just a brilliant novel that was ruined by making into a TV movie…there ya go.
DIVORCE. May I have the origin of the word please? ORIGIN early 19th cent.: from French divorcée ‘divorced woman.’ Can you use it in a sentence please? Can you tell Mr. Ex to go fuck himself please? D-I-V-O-R-C-E, DIVORCE.
This story may have been told before, but never with the level of martyrdom and self-indulgence that I intend to put forth in this blog. So fasten your seat belts…it is going to be a bumpy ride.