My divorce took nearly two years. Between the icy night when my ex and I split and the sunny spring day when the gavel finally struck, I behaved like a wild 18-year-old. During that 20 months, I had a series of romps, returned to my long-abandoned smoking habit, got stoned, went to bars, traveled solo, dressed in mini-skirts, went dancing, and laughed a lot. It was fun. Really, really, fun. And I know I'm not alone in embracing this post-divorce regressive behavior.
Most divorced couples spend a lot of time trying to save their marriages before they finally throw in the towel. Many limp along for years, occasionally resuscitated by a good therapist or a Caribbean vacation. When they finally fail, the first reaction is delayed shock, followed by grief, and then fear of an unknown future.
Once newly divorced folk pick themselves up, figure out their finances, throw out their ex's old t-shirts (or use them to clean hubcaps, as I did), and determine that they'll survive, there's a growing sense of relief, followed by a surprising burst of energy (or mania, call it what you will), and then, when the sadness and anxiety wash away, liberation and regression can ensue.
Even now, I smile when I think back on those two zany, sexy, (somewhat manic) joie de vivre years. Call them The Years of Living Divorcedly. I did what many single, childless, independent, curious, heart-broken American women do (as is evidenced by the popularity of Eat, Pray, Love). I suffered, I recovered, I hit the road. I took my savings and traveled. I talked to strangers in strange cities. I used my cash to go to New York, Paris, Mexico, and California. I flirted in bad Spanish. I spent a few days with a guy I met on the steps of Montmartre. I quit my job and found a new career. I stood on my roof, watched the city lights, and smoked. I stayed out late and stumbled into work. I had an after-hours affair with a hot young valet from my parking garage. I didn't act my age.
Was my behavior a desperate attempt to escape the sadness and loss of my marriage? Was my state of perpetual motion a cover-up for an inability to sit with my new reality, my return to singledom? Maybe, at least for the first couple of months. Then I washed my hubcaps with his shirts and set my hopeful eyes toward the future. I have few regrets from those days, and I had a lot of fun.
I have no doubt that some people will judge me, think my behavior was irresponsible and potentially hazardous, and criticize me for acting juvenile. I won't disagree. But I'd also laugh it off and ask: Have you ever been through an acrimonious divorce? Have you been blindsided by the person you were supposed to trust above all others? Have you had truly, ridiculous, sustained, adolescent fun as an adult? Is it worth being a sourpuss toward someone who's embracing the world after years of merely enduring it?
Trauma has a way of cracking people open, making them vulnerable and receptive. More open to religion, spirituality, human kindness, vivid experience. Someone groovier than me might say that pain makes us more able to receive positive vibrations from the world around us. I just know that when we need it, help sometimes arrives in unanticipated forms. A blossoming cherry tree, a cigarette, a friend who shows up at the right time, a short ride in a fast car, a sexy parking valet, stupid, juvenile, fun.
In a way, divorce is a form of rebellion. A rebellion against an entrenched cultural norm. Whether or not you're the one who initiated the divorce, "'Til death do us part," becomes a lie. So why not continue to rebel, at least temporarily? Eventually, most of us return to our "normal" less exuberant (non-smoking) selves. But before that happens, laugh a lot. Don't act your age for a little while. Screw the sourpusses who say if you ended up divorced it's because you didn't try hard enough to save your marriage. They didn't live your life. Do what any self-respecting post-adolescent would do, ignore them. Carpe diem. There's plenty of time to be a grown-up.