The Color of My Parachute

I made an appointment today to be evaluated by a vocational expert. What fun! At long last I'll find out if my current job as stay-at-home-mom has earned me any street cred, or if, in fact, serving sausage patties twenty years ago at Bob Evans was the apex of my career.

This amusing little diversion is being "offered" to me compliments of my estranged husband, who was kind enough to bring this matter before a judge, who was gracious enough to pen the invitation on fancy paper with a Cook County logo on it, and even stamp it with a fancy stamp!

It's all part of that intricate pas de deux known as The Divorce Proceeding. I'm while I'm told that it's not uncommon for a working husband to want a non-working wife to be given a gentle nudge toward employment, I know of only one other person (my cousin) who was "invited" to career counseling. Her ex is a prince, a successful hotshot who had it all, including a pregnant girlfriend in Mexico. My cousin was tested and questioned and evaluated and told she might make a good office manager. She's now finishing anatomy and biology on her way to becoming a registered nurse. Which is a shame, because she makes a mean cup of coffee.

I can't wait to find out what MY skills are! There's that bachelor's degree hiding around here somewhere (buried under my Victoria's Secret undies, perhaps?). There was that pesky 12-year stint as an entrepreneur and business owner. But that's all a vague memory, made murky by years of lactating and, you know, other mom...stuff. Because what do moms really do anyway? I heard on the radio once that if you break down the duties of a mom and assign market value to each one, a mother would earn a salary of $118,000. Ha! A conspiracy theory, no doubt, started by lazy, unqualified whiners who want credit for living the easy life.

Not me. I'm ready, EAGER to be tested, to have another man tell me what I need to do. Lead me, I say! It's just that, well, the $2,500 pricetag of this particular dance is a little baffling. Wouldn't a new computer be a better investment and help generate income? How about a training course? Or even childcare to allow time for new pursuits? But gosh, thinking of ways I might spend $2,500 just makes my pretty little head hurt! I'd rather think about what I'll wear to my appointment. The frilly apron is nice and goes with anything. Or the mom jeans and white sneakers. Oh, and I can't forget my giant Mary Poppins-inspired carpet bag. It's one of those magic ones that allows me to stuff the three kids inside and forget about them. They don't require much, really. Just a little air. Otherwise they mostly take care of themselves.

Yes, I am really looking forward to this opportunity to show off my talents. I might speak a little French. Or play the pianoforte. I might even take a refreshing turn about the room (to show my figure in the most pleasing light!)

Hmmm. What color is my parachute? (And will it match my shoes?) I think it's more of a mantle, anyway. As in a cloak worn by women in Victorian times. How fitting. I'm a modern day Elizabeth Bennett. Plucky and independent. And I have so many more choices than she had in her day. Nevermind that determining my own path is not necessarily one of them. There's no time for that when I have laundry to fold. And yes, that's on my resume.

(Check in next week to hear which vocation the magical expert chooses for me!)

Yearly Resolutions are for Wimps. Not Divorcees.

2009 seemed to be a year of major upheaval. I found myself going through a divorce, but, with a good handful of friends contemplating, initiating, or reeling from their own break-ups, at least I had company. (Granted, not the kind of company you want for dinner unless you plan to hide the sharp knives.) I think I speak for most divorcees out there when I say that what we want is Resolution. Not a silly list of do's and don'ts. Real Resolution. An end to the re-hashing, the second-guessing and what-ifs. A giant kiss-off to quitters, cheats, Peter Pans and control freaks. A rousing 'up yours!' to the judges and lawyers playing God in our lives. A signed document that sets us free.

Except. The document is just the first step. What divorcees really need is the manual. The 2010 Code on Divorcing Gracefully.

This Manual (mine at least) might include the following:

Stop working on euphemisms for what happened, such as: my husband had an interesting take on 'to have and to hold.' Or 'the grass was greener.' Or, as the legal documents would have it, it was a matter of 'lifestyle choices.' Stick with 'we're divorced' and don't feel compelled to launch into the unabridged saga. Face it. No ones cares as much as you think they do.

Accept that, yes, SHE is 12 years younger. Know that whoever 'she' is, she will undoubtedly stay the same age, while he ages and becomes pathetic. Allow yourself small satisfaction on this point.

Stop flinching when your son goes on about the girlfriend and how awesome she is because she calls him 'dude.'

Believe your therapist when he tells you that your Ex did you a favor. Resolve to continue therapy if you have to donate blood to do it.

Stop expecting to understand your Ex. Remember that peace described in a very famous book, the kind that passeth all understanding? Ponder that, and enjoy the superior feeling that comes from knowing verbs that end in 'TH.'

Know that cooperation with an Ex is overrated. Learn to make decisions — about finances, housing, kids, career — on your own. Embrace the single mom power and mystique. If you've never done it, raise a fist and yell 'girls rock!' (Except girls who call boys 'dude.')

Don't take it personally when friends treat you as if you're contagious. They simply want immunity from this particular plague and know there's no magic pill they can take to get it.

Enjoy alone time. Learn the difference between loneliness and solitude. Consider these wise words from Anne Lindbergh, who writes about solitude in her memoir Gift from the Sea: Woman must be still as the axis of a wheel in the midst of her activities, she must be the pioneer in achieving this stillness, not only for her own salvation, but for the salvation of family life, of society, perhaps even of our civilization.

Follow your own bliss. Stop following a blueprint with someone else's comments scrawled all over it. Thank another wise soul who said that the best revenge is a life well-lived.

Live 2010 well.

What do you buy at Crate and Barrel?

So I was wandering through Crate and Barrel last night having a text message fight with my boyfriend. I went in specifically to kill time, hoping that if I admired the $2000 leather chair or the espresso stained coffee table long enough, I might someday attract them into my living room. But naturally I was distracted, because it's really hard to fight when you're using only a thumb, and I didn't notice much of anything. In fact, I circled the same floor two full times before realizing it, and then I was so disoriented it took me a crazy amount of time to find the escalators.

Fight aborted (not resolved), I tried to focus on some dinnerware. The store was about to close, but I felt a desperate – okay, angry – urge to buy something, anything, quickly. I stood in front of a mini waffle griddle for some time (security definitely had me in their sights by now). Not a mini griddle; a regular griddle that made mini waffles, but there was no top to it, which really confused me. Still, I wanted it. It was cute. And good for smacking someone in the head.

I didn't buy it. Instead, I started thinking about the crap I DO buy: that at fortysomething, I deserve to have these nice things. That these things represent a happy home. That if I can't afford to have a dining room table with matching sideboard, I've somehow failed. And speaking of failed, how about this one? That I'm too old to have a boyfriend, for Pete's sake, and to be feeling the same communication frustrations I've felt a hundred times.

I moved on to contemplate a napkin ring. Shiny, gold, pretty. Suppose that when I said to someone that my feelings were hurt by a certain behavior, that person were to hand me a so-called napkin ring. Wouldn't cost much, but as a gesture, how nice. Then if that person wanted to say 'we really need to look at the entire table, at the way you're serving things up,' well...fine. But start with something shiny, please. That's all I'm asking.

People who shop here must know this. They're undoubtedly mature, self-actualized grown-ups. In order to be able to make a decision faced with so many beautiful options, a person has to have her life defined. Traditional? Or contemporary? I thought I was traditional, with the kids and husband and house. But now I find I'm contemporary, with an Ex, an inflated T-Mobile text package, and a boyfriend. I'm wandering the aisles, wondering where I fit and what fits me.

The same thing happens when I go walking in a nice neighborhood. I love to look at houses. And in windows, if possible. The nicer the house, the happier the family. Isn't that right? I'm not so foolish, but I do covet various places not so much for the houses themselves, but for the life I imagine would go with them. If only I could live there, or there, I'd feel younger, be more forgiving, listen better, argue less. My days would have that gauzy, soft focus look, like a Hallmark movie.

But why do we (because I assume I'm not alone here) ascribe such meaning to structures or objects? Why do we think life has to come in a certain color, match a set, or be made of brick? Is it that it's easier to look at pretty things than at ourselves?

I don't know. But if we had a nice big shiny bowl, we could throw all these questions in and have a party. I'll text you the details when my thumb stops aching.

Fint Som Snus

Hasn't everyone had that experience of seeing an old friend or acquaintance out of the blue, maybe in the grocery store, or at the gym, and ducking before being spotted? Why do we do that? For me, there's always the certainty that of course so-and-so won't remember me. Nevermind that we sat next to each for three semesters and I know the name of her first pet (Ginger) and that poor Ginger was run over by my friend's dad in their driveway. No, I am the owner of a sort of invisibility cloak.

So I'm making it one of my goals to attack 2010 with a little more presence. Driving by a 1-hour t-shirt place the other day, I even considered having a shirt made: Yes, I AM taking up space. A more confident cloak, so to speak. To ready me for those inevitable run-ins.

But don't you hate how those run-ins have to turn into run-downs? The whole 'what's new?' thing is exhausting. 2009 happens to be My Year of Divorce and I haven't begun to compose my What-Went-Wrong (in 100-words or less) essay. That's led to a predicament. I'm lonely for friends, but don't want to be constantly rehashing my life.

Still, a girl's got to eat, and an old roommate happens to own a fabulous Swedish restaurant on Foster Avenue called Tre Kronor. I haven't kept up with Patty like I've wanted to. We lived together before either of us met our husbands. Now she has five kids, owns and runs both Tre Kronor and The Sweden Shop with her husband, and still looks fabulous and has a friendly smile for everyone. They're the hard-working, have-it-all couple that have me reaching for my cloak, thinking 'they're much too busy for little 'ol me!'

I was telling a friend all this as we sat outside Tre Kronor devouring a heavenly apple danish. The waiters are perky, Nordic-looking students from North Park University, and they wore powder blue t-shirts that said "Fint Som Snus," which translates, I'm told, to "fine as snuff," or, as we would say "right as rain." Patty's husband Larry happened by, and he surprised me by saying he wanted to call Patty over, sure that she'd want to see me. Conveniently, they live right across the street, and moments later she was running over. She gave me a big hug and the first words out of her mouth were "I've missed you!" I don't know if it was hearing that, or if I was still high on the apple danish, but that breakfast, that run-in, made my week. It couldn't have come at a more perfect time, desperate as I was for a reminder that no, I wasn't invisible. I was fint som snus.

My friend will never know how good she made me feel that day. Unless I have a t-shirt made. What's Swedish for thank you, thank you, thank you!!?

I Love You...For Now

The subject of unconditional love has been coming up repeatedly for me lately. I went to see (500) Days of Summer at the McClurg Theater downtown -- a fabulous venue by any standard, yet something about its cavernous interior always gives me a surreal sense of isolation, even when the seats are packed. Or maybe the surreal sense comes from the time I was there for the debut showing of Public Enemies, starring Johnny Depp and filmed in Chicago, and all the extras were there too, dressed in period clothing, which made for that time warp feeling. Or maybe it's that, earlier, I'd actually seen Johnny Depp on the red carpet and the place will be forever lonely without him. Talk about unconditional love...

But I digress. In (500) Days of Summer I loved the part where the main character Tom, in the throes of lovesickness, says to Zooey Deschanel's character Summer something like "I want to know that you're not going to feel differently about me tomorrow." And she looks at him with those big doe-eyes and says, "I can't give you that. No one can."

It reminded me of the lyrics to a Split Endz song: "You know that I love you, here and now, not forever. I can give you the present. I don't know 'bout the future. That's all stuff and nonsense."

Harsh, I thought. But true?

Unwillingly, I re-lived my first heartbreak, when my college boyfriend turned to me one night and said "I don't love you anymore." In my twenties I believed love was something you couldn't turn off. It was like a magical spigot, once turned on it would be stuck on, pouring love like water into eager upturned hands. Twenty years later, I've seen a few faucets dry up. Sometimes in little drips, other times like a sledge hammer coming down on an old fixture. When my husband told me he'd been cheating on and off for ten years, and had just spent 12 hours with someone in Las Vegas who was destined to be his new love, it was a crash course in the changeable nature of love.

Now I find myself wondering if the only love that can't really be destroyed is the love we have for our children, or our parents. Those primordial relationships are in our very DNA. We'll stretch the ties to near breaking, but only because we're confident there's some high-quality elastic there. With anyone else you can spend years learning each other and one day be handed a big red-letter F, flunking an exam you didn't know you were taking. There's my cynic.

But then I'll moments of such expansive, joyous love toward someone and it does makes sense. Time truly seems to stand still. In that kind of love there's no future because there's no room for it. Constructs like tomorrow, next week, next year only cage it in. There's still a learning curve, yes, but no striving, no grade.

I wonder if the next time someone says "I'm just over you," I'll be able to remain philosophical. And I can't decide if knowing it can happen at any time makes love more precious. Or just makes me sad.

Warrior at the Ready

Yesterday, while I was in the middle of a yoga class, my muscles warmed, my mind clear, my sister popped into my head. I haven't seen or spoken to my sister in more than 2 years. Last I saw her was in a hotel room at an Embassy Suites in Colorado where my family had lured her for a drug intervention. She's a crystal meth addict, and was high that day. Despite our tearful, pleading letters, despite our interventionist's efforts to reel her in over 4 long hours, despite the bed we'd paid for at a rehab in California (we had new sheets in the suitcase! With pink flamingoes on them!), the intervention failed. My sister fled the room and we were forced to deliver the "kiss-off" letter. Just your standard "you are dead to me until you're ready for help" letter.

Two years later, she's still not ready. So I've put her out of my life and, mostly, my thoughts. Which is why her interrupting my downward-facing dog was remarkable. For the first time in a long time I had a clear conviction that I would see her again. Alive. I just felt it.

Then my mother sent me an email saying that she had a meltdown yesterday over my sister, that she cried all day. Now my mother and I don't talk about my sister much anymore. It's easier that way. So it seemed a strange coincidence that she came to us on the same day, disrupting our careful indifference. I told my mother that maybe she's thinking of us, that our "feelers" are being activated for some reason. Still, there's nothing we can do. If she calls, we've been instructed to repeat the script: I won't talk to you unless you're calling for help.

I'm hoping that my sister doesn't call my mother. She'll crumble for sure. She won't be able to follow the script. Better if she calls me; I've prepared. I've done some warrior poses with this very situation in mind. I still haven't the slightest idea if I'll say the right words. But in the meantime, I've got strong thighs and the hope that they'll get me where I need to go.

What Price Passion?

I spoke to a friend today who told me his wife is leaving her job as a vice president of a major Chicago advertising firm. She's fed up, he said, and wants to take the rest of the year to figure out what she really wants to do. He said she's always hoped to open a bakery. I loved hearing this. Who isn't cheered by a good "follow your dream" story? We all wish we had the courage to chuck it all in search of some bliss, but how many of us actually do? But no sooner had I voiced my enthusiasm when my friend began hedging. It would all depend on whether his wife could adjust to the severe drop in income. How many cakes would she need to sell to make her dream worthwhile?

It was a question similar to one another friend posed to me last night: how much money do we really need to be happy? She shared a "fact" she came across while blog-surfing: that supposedly $40,000 a year is all one needs to be happy. Enough to cover food and shelter (though not cable TV) and the rest is gravy. Or icing on the cake.

The problem is, we all want our cake, but...you know the rest. It's easy to put a price tag on the things we want to acquire, but not so easy to quantify the things we give up. When there is no one there to pay us or pat us on the back for our efforts, can we still feel fulfilled doing it? Can it even be called a passion? Does it get downgraded to a hobby, or an avocation, or worse still, a past time? Playing checkers is a past time. And it's hard to imagine anyone leaving a job to pursue a life of checker-playing, unless it's at the retirement community.

But hurray for those who take the plunge and resolve to do what they love! How else can you find out if your passion is priceless, or only priced to sell?