At the time, friends had come up with all sorts of creative ideas about the significance of the date. Three twelves add up to thirty-six, which is twice eighteen, or "chai" in Hebrew, which means life and signifies "good luck." The date would bring me double good luck -- at least that was the theory. Some of the formulas were darker. Three sixes is the sign of the devil. Three twelves -- well, that couldn't be good. Maybe I was just trading the devil I'd known for a new one; maybe the new one wouldn't be so bad.
Anniversaries always tend to spark reflection, and the first anniversary of my divorce is no exception. I was grateful it took me so long to remember, that I did not waste an entire day mulling over my disappointments and my lingering uncertainties. In fact, I was already well into a glass of wine by the time I realized what day it was, and the haze cast a rosy glow on the occasion. Not a celebratory glow -- I have never thought a circuit court judge's stamp on a fat document laying out the details of a major upheaval in the lives of a bunch of folks about whom I care very deeply was cause for revelry. It was simply a glimmer of optimism, a recognition of how much has changed over the course of twelve months, and how we are all still standing.
Divorce, no matter how necessary it might seem, does its damage. As intolerable as marriage may have been, we have all -- my children, my ex, and I -- endured our own personal versions of hell in the aftermath of its termination. With other unpredictable crises adding to the mix, I often wondered how any of us would make it through, and, though I can only speak for myself, I am pretty sure we are all still wrestling with demons. Then again, so are most people. We are just not that special.
In my wine induced haze I thought about how a year ago I never would have believed I would be where I am today. I have survived countless emotional roller coaster rides, and I have figured out how to navigate new frontiers with my children and with my ex husband without the benefit of a GPS. I have worked where I no longer thought I was competent to work, and I have filled the white spaces of my resume with a hefty dose of positive spin. I have cleaned out and sold the house where my family took shape -- enduring some minor setbacks along the way, and have journeyed down memory lane countless times without becoming paralyzed by "what ifs." I have moved to a new place and created a brand new space for me and my youngest daughter as she prepares to leave whichever nest we happen to inhabit. I have downsized in terms of square footage, but I have realized that my little house gives me a sense of warmth and coziness I could never quite achieve as I puttered around in my spacious "great room." Things break and I fix them. I have grown fond of physical labor, and I go on shopping sprees to Home Depot instead of Bloomingdale's. I wield a mean hammer.
Twelve-twelve-thirteen. Thirty-seven, a prime number. I'd like to think that signifies something good. Statistics would suggest I am well past my prime, but I can't for the life of me figure out when that happened or what was so "prime" about it. Screw the actuarial charts; I'm perfectly willing to believe my prime is yet to come.
No comments:
Post a Comment