Old & Single & Unready to Mingle

First published August 2016. Content warning: divorce & raw emotion.

I pick pieces to pull out of the archives on impulse. If I remember something I said, or if I point someone else to it for whatever reason, then the piece goes in the queue to be republished. I recently passed the eighth anniversary of rebooting my life & remembered this essay.

I’m flying to Menlo Park with two guitars, a big suitcase, and the backpack I got in Facebook Bootcamp five years ago. The rest of my stuff forlornly occupies a third of a 10x10 storage unit. The nest empty, I am flying the coop (to nearly mix a metaphor).

I’m writing about my divorce here because I need to write and I’m not comfortable going public public. I’m sure I’ll have lessons learned, cautionary stories, and sage advice later. Right now all I have is an emotional grab bag. Stick my hand in, pull it out, and see what’s there. Fury. Sadness. Elation. Fury again. It’s like eating a sadistic ice cream sundae blindfolded.

Okay, one lesson: presence. I spent the last week doing things for the last time: my last Wild River Brewing root beer, my last pat of the old farm dog Patch, my last whiff of the Rogue River, a smell that carries me instantly, effortlessly back a half century.

Here’s the thing. Doing these things (and a hundred like them) the last time is exhausting. I’d tear up, blubber, and eventually let the feeling pass and move on. About the tenth time in an hour, though, and the energy tank is dry dry. I have to truncate.

I’m not drinking Wild River root beer for the last time, I’m just drinking root beer. And it’s damn good. I’m patting my dog. I’m feeling the river caress my fingers. Call it “insight by exhaustion”. Too tired to continue living in a future where I’m no longer doing things I love, I live in the present moment because I have exhausted (literally) all the other possibilities.

At first I was afraid I’d be missing something. This is the last time, dammit. No. Turns out tears and self-pity spoil the flavor of root beer. It tastes better straight.

I still float back to the future sometimes, like just now as I was writing and got all watery. However, I’ve had moments of the joy of pure experience. Right now, Lamy in hand, I’m enjoying the hospitality of United Airlines.

What’s next for me? If you’re asking that, apparently you didn’t read the rest of the note. If I’m answering it, apparently neither did I. I’m going to spend two months in NYC finding out if I’m a coach, a team coach, a manager, a product manager, a corporate shill, or something else I haven’t thought of. But for now, one moment at a time.

I heard a comedian joke that the correct response to, “I’m getting divorced,” should be, “Congratulations!” However bad it is, it must be better than what went before. And so it was for me. I had wild mood swings but the average was much, & remains much, better than before.

And to those asking why I didn’t leave sooner if it was really that bad, you don’t leave when it gets bad, you leave when you’re ready to leave.