That dreaded question ...

In my world, my separation was eons ago. It's practically another lifetime - certainly a different life. Long enough that some friends forget I ever was married, though it's not a fact I try to hide. Instead, I choose to crack jokes and assume that my status as a single, now unmarried lady is common knowledge.

But, apparently, it's not. Saturday marks my four year anniversary with Toronto (don't worry, our love grows stronger every year) and in my time here, I've been an engaged lady, a married lady, a complete mess, a separated and divorced lady, and now am embracing life as a single gal. Maybe it's not so surprising that not everyone kept up.

So, last week, while out with friends, I ran into a former colleague. We hadn't seen each other since the last Ontario election campaign - when I was frantically planning my wedding.

We, of course, ask each other how things are, exchange updates and he proudly shows off his wedding ring. I congratulate him, sincerely, and then the dreaded pause.

So, I hold up my bare hand, somewhat proudly, and in the middle of the crowded bar, say "I'm not anymore."

Stunned silence, first, of course. I should really learn to break the news gently. I've got very few secrets, and I've had loads of time to get used to it. For others, I guess it can still be shocking.

To this gent's credit, he only paused for a beat. Then asked, "What happened!?!"

Oh, that dreaded question. I understand it. Everyone wants a pat, simple answer. They want reassurance that it isn't going to happen to them. They want to hear that we weren't in love. That something horrible and sudden happened. That there was a clear sign, and explanation, for what happened.

Of course, it's not anyone's business. And not a story for a crowded bar, even if it was. So I laugh, say, "Oh, that's far too long of a story."And move on.

Or at least I do so briefly. But I continue to dwell on that question. What the hell did happen?

I too wish there had been signs that things weren't going to work out. That we couldn't overcome all. That we were going to grow apart. Grow miserable. Transform from two madly in love, in sync people into a couple who grudgingly clung to each other out of fear of change, comfort in familiarity. The type of people who couldn't imagine life without each other, only to realize that we were really just spending each day ignoring, avoiding and torturing each other.

But there were no early warning signs. At least none that I can recall. And this time last year, I was going over every moment of our relationship with a fine-toothed comb, looking for any indication that I'd turned a blind eye to those flashing warning signs. I couldn't find any. It worked right up until it didn't.


I think some degree of optimism, blind bliss if you will, is necessary for being in love and being in a relationship. If you don't have faith, how can it ever work? Being in love is terrifying. But if there were assurances, it wouldn't be so exhilarating. So, I guess you just have to let yourself fall, and hope for the best. Fight to make it work. All the while knowing that sometimes it will, and sometimes it won't.

Take 10

What can be done in 10 minutes? A quick shower. Emptying the dishwasher. Dissolving my marriage.

Yep, that's right. I've waited longer for a latte at Starbucks than it took to fill out and sign the paperwork to legally undo a seven year relationship.

I sat in a chair, saying, "Yes, yes, no" to my lawyer. Scrambled through my email for answers to questions that I didn't know the answers to any more (Have I really forgotten his birthday? Already? After years of perfectly executed scavenger hunts, extravagant presents, and carefully planned baked goods, how could that detail so easily slip away?). Signed on the dotted line, four times, and that was that.

It was oddly emotional. And very strange. My lawyer asked if my ex was doing any better with the split than the last time she'd seen him, when we sold the house. I had to confess to her that she'd still talked to him more recently than I had.

When I left the office, my pre-appointment green tea still boiling hot, I started to cry. Slipping my sunglasses down over my eyes, even though it was a grey-ish day, that reaction caught me by surprise.

I sat, alone, on a bench in the far, far east of town. The same bench where I'd waited for a bus when we bought a house together almost two years earlier. It was fitting, if sad closure, for it all to come full circle there. Dreams squashed.

I don't know what I expected. Maybe I thought the process should be more monumental, more difficult, more ... something. Not so cut and dried and fast and obvious. A generic form. Signing on the line where it said "wife." As though that label still applied to me. As though I still recognized the person who belonged to that title and that name, now so unfamiliar that I kept mis-scrawling the signature. When she called out Mrs. in the waiting area, I didn't even look up. It didn't register that she could be talking to me.

But the tears. They were shocking. Were they sadness? Relief? Frustration at this seemingly endless process?

I don't know.

Realistically, at this point, it's just - finally - legalizing something that had been written long ago. Finishing something that was both wanted and necessary. Something that I've been properly excited about.

I've mourned what was, what could have been, and what should have been. I've cried for the people we were, the people we wanted to be, and the people we became.

Yet, apparently, there are still a few tears left to shed.

Winding down 2010

Happy December!

With only 31 days left before the new year, I can't help but think about how I started off 2010 with a husband, a house a part-time job and a serious migraine problem.

Now, almost 12 months later - I've got none of those things!

Instead, I'm a full-time employed single gal with a rental condo and a closet full of shoes and French lingerie.

It's funny the difference a year makes. And who knows what 2011 will bring?

It sucks ...

When you've lost sight of the light at the end of the tunnel and realize that the only person who ever knew exactly how to help you escape that dark and destructive spot in your own head is not only completely out of your life, but no longer exists.

Disconnected

It's funny how things change. How your world can revolve around one person. How you can't imagine your life without them in it. How things don't feel real unless they're shared.

Then, without even noticing it, that feeling erodes. You go weeks without sharing anything of substance. Weeks without talking. Weeks, then months, without seeing each other.

Until finally, a major holiday or life event passes by and it takes someone else asking for you to notice that they didn't even get in touch.

No anger, no sadness, just indifference. And shock at how quickly you've forgotten.

Is this how it really ends?

It's funny to think that the last time we might ever see each other was in passing at a lawyer's office, finalizing the house sale, with a barely-there nod, an awkward glance and not a single word spoken.

At some point, that store of angry outbursts and tears run dry. We'd already become two totally disconnected people barely co-existing in the same realm by the time things ended, and by now, six months later, our nearly seven-year-history has been reduced to a blip in the story of our lives. Almost like it didn't happen at all, barring a few awkward conversations with people slightly out of the loop and likely a battle scar or two.

So, I guess it's a fitting ending, that the final farewell would be as a nod to the next customer coming in, an apology for lateness, the kind of gesture you make several times a day to random people in a variety of settings. As though we never knew each other at all.

Chapter closed

These past few months, I feel like I've been working on two separate chapters of my life. Actually, it would be more honest to call them books - they're totally separate manuscripts, sequels with shared characters that can exist separately. And the division between them is too great for merely a change in chapters, readers could easily get lost in the jump.

The first was written, barring a few last sentences and a bit of tedious editing that required revision, reviewing and the occasional few hours of attention.

The other soared along, the pages flowing freely, with new stories, developments and analysis everyday. This story, and its characters, are constantly evolving, and the ending remains a surprise.

Balancing these two stories was sometimes challenging. But today, that first book is finally closed - and I get the satisfaction of slipping it safely away on a shelf, a part of my past with a proper ending.

And this new story? Well, it's simply amazing.

Undone

Like throwing out a favourite sweater, it can be hard to admit when a relationship has run its course.

First, things get a little worn around the edges. You ignore the ratty collar and cuffs, just like you ignore the way you've stopped sharing hobbies.

Then holes start to show. Missed appearances at parties, grumbled complaints about daily inconveniences and the transition from "we" to "I" in conversation start to be noticed by friends, until finally it just can't be shown in public anymore.

As the threads unravel, you may not be quite ready to put it in the toss pile. It's familiar, comfortable and has, in some ways, become part of you. It may not be flattering. It may not even be comfortable anymore. But you still wear it around the house on weekends.

In time, it's relieved of service. You may stow it away in the back of a closet or drawer, seeking comfort in the fact that it is still within grasp, even if you no longer want to wear it.

Finally, you decide you want that closet space for something trendier, more comfortable, more suitable for your life -- something that's more you. With perhaps a twinge of sadness, you finally let it go, and realize that while you were clinging to the idea of that sweater, you're really rather relieved to open up that space in your life again.

Beginnings, endings and the messy bits in between

My 24th year can only be described as epic. When I turned 24, I was married. I was a homeowner. I was on a set path of doing exactly what was expected of me. And for numerous reasons, I was miserable.

Now, with three weeks to go before I hit the quarter-century mark, I am no longer that married lady. The semi-detached house with a yard has been sold, and my living arrangements have been replaced with a new condo rental high in the downtown skyline. I worry less about what people expect from me, and more about what it is that I want. I think about what feels right for me, and what makes me happy. And, I am happy.

It turns out, sometimes life is messy. And while sometimes the drama of starting all over can be a bit overwhelming - for both myself and the people in my life - I have learned that messy doesn't have to be bad. In fact, the more time I spent worrying about what could happen - the fear of making a mistake, the fear of complications - the more likely things were to get complicated and unpleasant.

I also was reminded that people don't fit easily into boxes - and that I shouldn't let them try. I can be the responsible editor, the midnight high heel-wearing baker, the nerdy video gamer, the bookworm and the hockey player - sometimes all in the same night. And I like it that way.

So, while I've joked about my quarter-century crisis, thus the name of this blog, it's really more of a quarter-century kickoff. Because my 25th year is going to be an adventure. I've reclaimed the reins of my life, and wanted an outlet to share and process my experience - and hopefully get a little encouragement as I learn to embrace endings, beginnings and all the messy bits that come along with it.