I’ve been spending the last several months becoming acquainted with the tangles and turns and trials of divorce, something that came wildly out of the blue when my kindred soul, my heart’s desire, my “soul mate,” as they’re called, had a seemingly spontaneous psychotic break or manic episode or cataclysmic panic attack, or some combination of all three. Or perhaps he became possessed by a dybbuk, I don’t know. It happened suddenly one night during the balmiest part of summer, as suddenly as we had originally met and fell smack on our faces in love the summer before. He became enraged at something horrible and unforgivable I had done I couldn’t figure out what and lost his temper, his impulse control, his fundamental faculties for reason, and then finally lost any recognizable semblance or trait of who I’d always known him to be, his mind, whatever. Then he threw me out of the house, 8 months after our wedding, ultimately believing me to have become a terrible evil wench or something. Now there is a small town, a restraining order, and an indefinitely lasting injunction between us, as there has been for the last six months, which has been the same amount of time since I last saw him, raving as if he were rabidinous and foaming at the mouth, degenerated from a gentle, sensitive man so rapidly and inexplicably I wasn’t sure whether it was I who was losing it. Continue reading
I got off the phone with Mom a while ago after making her sit and wait patiently while I dumped my weekly baggage on her for an hour. In between my monologues, she took the opportunity to mention, again—as if my life isn’t already complicated enough—“You KNOW, you’ll be turning 29 soon! Oh my goodness!” Blah Blah. And once again she reminded me how my eggs—you know, my eggs—will only still be fresh for about another year.
“It’s just a fact,” she harped. “I was talking to my-friend-the-OBGYN about it. So many women make the mistake of thinking ‘they can wait’ and that everything will be perfectly fine and then they end up in trouble!”
So then I suggested that for my 29th birthday she and Dad pay to have a few of my eggs frozen. You know, a long-term security deposit, like buying a CD or a mutual fund or something.
“Ummm . . . sure. Daddy and I would pay for that,” she stammered. “We’d do anything for you.”
And this short story by Idra Novey makes me think of what I’d be like if I had lived in Latin America in the 1970s.
*Images are all from Wiki Commons, and I sure hope they’re on the public domain. Click the image to go to the source.