transitioning to single was unwelcome at the time, but honestly? I needed a good goosing to get up and find my way to the exit, just like love had a couple of decades ago. Why did I stay? It will have to remain one of the great psychological mysteries of the ages because I don’t know. Maybe laziness. Maybe the benefits of combined income. None of the answers I come up with paint a flattering picture.
If not for the financial component, I might have been embarrassingly elated. But living in a state not friendly to discarded wives, I was also relieved of the financial 'security' I'd spent a lifetime accruing. Did I mention that Cole wasn’t the sort of guy who was into sharing when he saw no benefit to himself?
I’d be reduced to my sixty-eight-thousand-dollar-a-year job as a claims adjuster for National Farm & Neighbor. I wouldn’t starve, but I wouldn’t be going on vacation to Las Brisas either. Sigh. Nope. The ‘trade-in’ would be enjoying a pink jeep, a private pool overlooking Acapulco Bay, and salads with flowers in them. Sigh.
So. Starting over? I didn't plan on it. Didn't see it coming. But pulling a sheet over my head and waiting for the end didn't seem like my style. Granted, I wasn't sure what my style was because I hadn't thought about freedom of expression since I was twenty.
Yeah. I’m over the hill. I’m over that and a world of other annoyances I kept quiet about when I was younger. But what’s the point of packing on a few years and a few pounds if you can’t speak up when the spirit moves you? Or gooses you in the ass.
Okay. Full disclosure. (Translation: Partial disclosure.) To the consternation of both my parents, who’d hoped for demure, I never was what you’d call closed mouthed. But I did manage a modicum of restraint until the recent, surprise announcement that I was about to undergo a ‘status’ change. In my present state of being disyoked from an overly-opinionated husband, I feel personal anarchy blossoming to life.
I checked to make sure the little stash I’d squirreled away was safe and secure at the Peoples’ Prosperity Bank. There was enough for meager living quarters for a few months until I could figure things out.
I set aside everything that didn’t fit into two rolling bags for storage and made my way to the corporate residence, which was what we used to call a studio apartment. I left the bags standing in the living room, looking as lost as I felt, and let myself fall onto the tweedy sofa without thinking too hard about whether I needed to view the fabric through a black-light filter.
My boss was reservedly polite when I called to say I’d be taking a couple of weeks of personal time. I knew it was short notice, but I had time accrued. If sick time was counted, I had a lot of time on the books because I’d been fortunate to be healthy. And with no hobbies, and one child who was extraordinarily self-sufficient, I could work or watch Telemundo. I chose work.
I was sitting there, trying to summon the energy to go to the grocery for provisions to stock the galley kitchen when there was a knock on the door.
I looked through the peephole before opening. It was the cheerful kid from the desk.
“Something for you, miss.”
“Gods bless you for calling me miss. Are you sure it’s for me? Nobody knows I’m here yet.”
He looked at the big, black lettering on the front of the envelope. “You’re Rita Hayworth. Right?”
I nodded dumbly. Hayworth was my maiden name. My head hadn’t yet cleared away the shock of being told by my husband of twenty years that I was old news. I hadn’t even thought about whether or not I would keep his name or reclaim my own. I hadn’t yet called a lawyer, talked to my daughter, or decided to get rid of the navy-blue sedan Cole had insisted was ‘classy’ and just perfect for me.
“Well, then,” the afternoon clerk said, pushing the envelope a couple of inches closer.
I took it. “Thanks.” And began looking for my purse to give him a tip. “Just a second.”
He waited while I fished out my wallet. I was clueless about the going rate of tip for delivering what seemed to be documents, but I didn’t want to be thought of as a cheapskate by the afternoon clerk. So, I pulled out a five and