Once, in college, my friend Danielle and I were having a bad couple of days, so we decided to count our blessings. We wrote down everything from "We have legs" to "We know how to say ‘Where is Stresa?' in Italian." It helped. I still have the list.

Getting divorced sucks all around. We all know this. But falling to the absolute bottom of the pit means that, as you climb out, you realize afresh just what you've got. As much time as I've spent over the last year and half curled up in a sad little ball on my couch, as lonely as I've gotten, as hard as it was, there's something to be said for getting that wake up call as to how lucky you are. It's easy to forget, after all.

I have colleagues who planned and organized a two-day birthday party for me, so I wouldn't be alone the weekend my husband moved out.

I have friends like Lindsay, who spent the first weekend in my new apartment with me, mixing drinks and organizing my closet.

I have a family who wants nothing more than to hear updates about how my new-apartment-traumatized cat is curled up in a tragic little ball in the bathtub.

In addition, I've learned that:

I have the ability to move in to a new apartment on a Friday and be completely unpacked by Monday. With some help, yes - but still impressive.

I am capable of negotiating public transportation in another country without getting lost.

I can be completely, unequivocally content in my own company.

My new plan: remember all these things, all the time, so the universe doesn't feel the need to snack me upside the head about it.