Another lifetime ago I left the courthouse in tears after my divorce.  I was there alone, unless you count my attorney – and I don’t often recommend that you do.  I was upset by the other people in the courtroom who were hootin’ and hollerin’ with joy when the judge stamped their decrees.  I was past being bitter and I was past being angry.  I was just sad; sad that the silly little fairy tale I believed in when I was way too young to get married, but walking down the aisle anyway, turned out to be, well, unreal.  I was sad that I was alone.  And I was sad that even though I didn’t believe in divorce, I was the one who had to initiate it and see it through.  I thought all those other fine, young divorcees ought to be sad, too.

I got in my Grand Prix and drove away.  Or I tried to, anyway.  See, I have a long standing habit of getting lost in downtown Raleigh.  As I made my third pass down McDowell Street, looking for an allowed left turn, I switched on the radio and the DJ introduced the newest song by Cher.  Actually, it may very well still be her newest song.  The chorus lifted me.

Do you believe in life after love
I can feel something inside me say
I really don’t think you’re strong enough, no

I drove back to work for a couple of hours, then picked up my young daughter from daycare and went home to embark on single-motherhood.  Alone.  But lifted.  I’ve never heard that song again that I don’t think about that day leaving the courthouse.  It isn’t a sad memory, it’s one of strength.

We all have songs that have somehow touched our lives.  Any time I turn on the radio, or change to a new station and happen to catch a song at the very beginning, I feel as if there is a deeper reason why at that particular time I am being allowed to listen to that particular song in its entirety.  My karma has AM/FM.   Call me crazy.  I’m ok with that.

I spent this morning waiting for a phone call to tell me that I am divorced.  I did my chores, ran my errands, talked to friends on the phone, and all the while wondered what on earth it would feel like.  Would I be sad?  Would I be relieved?  Would I finally understand why those people in divorce court all those years ago were so joyful?  Then an old fear I thought I’d put to rest crept back in.  Would I be less of a person?  An uglier human?  Less worth of love?

And then the phone call came.  It is official.  I am a twice divorced single mother of three.  The fairy-godmother did not wave her evil wand and take away my dignity or turn my Jeep into a pumpkin (thank God!), so maybe the first six months of this process that I spent agonizing over the stereo-type was a silly waste of time.  And I recall somebody telling me that at the time, too.  Several somebodies.  I am shocked to report that I don’t feel sad, or relieved, or joyful, or, really, anything. 

That’s not quite true.  I feel excited.  ShirtlessRoland just texted me to say he’s on his way.  We already, coincidentally, had a romantic trip planned to coincide with TallGirl’s competition out of town this weekend.  In a few short hours we’ll be loading up the car and embarking on…well, something.  I hope the radio gives me a hint as to what it might be.

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