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A rainbow arced across the sky to light up my hands as I opened the envelope containing the final divorce decree. Pretty little zings of manic sparkly light shone out from the pages; I put back my head and laughed with joy right there in the street.
Well, actually, no I didn’t.
In fact it was a very sad moment, and not only because I now have to begin paying for my own (frightfully expensive) health insurance.
I can’t believe that it’s all over. After so many years of feeling like something was wrong, then more years of knowing something was wrong, then a couple years of trying to fix it, a year of trying to live with it, another year of deciding I couldn’t live with it, and finally a year-plus of pulling apart the various pieces of the marriage — finally, finally it is over.
It’s over.
Perhaps, a little voice whispered in my head, it never should have happened. I was not a good wife to him; I doubt that I could have been a good wife to any man. And I probably never will be.
Not that there was ever much hope of it, but holding the cold pages beat even more firmly into my head that we’d never fix the relationship. Some tiny hint of hope stayed stuck in my head when I told him I wanted the divorce that he’d snap into shape.
Instead, within days he’d produced a nearly-complete list of how he wanted to divide assets, debts and care of the children. It’s a list that with only minor amendments morphed into our final agreement. The list told me that he’d wanted to be apart just as much as I did. He’d thought it through, I think. And there’s nothing wrong with that.
Soon after receiving the final paperwork, I logged onto my pervy little dating site; it occurred to me that I should change my marital status to something other than “separated.” “Divorced” would have been the most logical choice, but instead I selected “single.”
I could not bring myself to choose the option that seemed to scream “failure.” People who divorce and then remarry can be “married.” People who live together for decades and then separate can be “single.” Why should I have to pick the option that focuses on my fuckupedness?
Or is it meant to be a warning?
I’ve told a handful of friends that it’s now all official. They’ve all congratulated me. But so far I don’t feel much in the mood for celebration. It’s sad and final, and believe it or not, there are no rainbows.



