Guess what? I have an irregular heartbeat. Frankly, I'm surprised I have any heartbeat at all after walking in on Jeffrey with his Johnson in a prostitute, but hey, I'm a resilient sort.

Women get really tough after going through a divorce. (You married girls think you have it rough? Believe me, you haven't seen anything until you've seen your ex-husband doing it doggie style.) Still, the sight of Jeffrey having sex (it was my lingerie she was wearing...) was enough to send me into the most humiliating hot flash of my menopausal life. And then came the sequel.

Did you know the human heart beats 100,000 times per day and 36 million times per year? I mean, that's a lot of work. I can only imagine that with everything it's been through lately, my own heart decided to join the rest of me on the picket line and go out on a strike of its own. And who could blame it?

It wasn't long after Valentine's Day that the palpitations started. I mean, of course I told Cody and Annabelle that I was super fine with everything that happened, but in truth, I wasn't. How could I be? I am not immune to the absurdity of my situation. And he may be suffering on the inside (that's what my friends all tell me) but on the outside, Jeffrey appears to be having the time of his fucking life. I want to know why his heart isn't beating a million miles a minute. Why isn't my ex-husband having palpitations too?!

So, what with all the drama, and at the advice of my always-helpful compadres (I speak a smidge of Spanish), I decided to go to the doctor, to, you know, check things out. I was nervous, because no one's ever looked at my heart before (I'm a pretty private person) and I wasn't so excited about opening that particular organ up. But in the interest of being responsible to my children and my self (someone has to, right?) I reluctantly go. (I drive the Prius, instead of the SUV because I'm thinking, just in case, I should start collecting good karma points pronto.)

So I get there (the waiting room is full of geriatrics who look like they can barely breathe, which is very encouraging) and a nurse in pink (I wonder, is this the color of tainted love?) ushers me into an exam room that is covered (I wouldn't make this up) with "heart art." There are pastel heart paintings and little sculptures of hearts with cute names like "Love Note" (that was a heart on top of a jukebox) and "Lightening Strikes Twice" (two lightening bolts meeting over, you guessed it, a heart) and there's a stuffed heart quilt hanging on the wall. You get the picture.

At this point, I'm wearing the little paper gown that doesn't cover anything (not my lately unloved boobs, not my palpitating ticker, none of it) and with little preamble the nurse lies me down on a table, sticks some electrode things on my chest, slathers me with goo and starts looking. I ask what she's doing, and the nurse says it's an echocardiogram. "What for?" I ask, and she says it's to see if I have a murmur. She looks at me kindly and says I should rest (hah, when was the last time that happened?!), that I won't understand what she's doing, but I understand perfectly. I know what a murmur is. She is checking to see if my heart is talking back. Which given the circumstances lately, would not be surprising.

I watch the red and blue colors whoosh around the screen and decide, if nothing else, my heart is very pretty and I should remember that when and if I ever feel that it is broken. I ask about the colors and she says it's my vascular flow and I'm thinking, well, la-de-da, unlike my ex-husband, I still have blood in my veins. I make some kind of joke to this effect and the nurse laughs and says she's been with her husband for 35 years and all she wants is time alone. She rolls her eyes. You know how it is, she says.

After the first 10 years you have nothing left to say to them. I tell her that actually, I have A LOT to say to my ex but whenever I have the chance it sticks in my throat and I never seem to be able to say anything. Which is when she raises an eyebrow and declares, in an accent that I'm pretty sure is Israeli (she is tough, this one, I can imagine she did some damage toting an uzi in the army), "That is why your heart hurts you. It is trying to speak."

As I contemplate this bit of unsolicited wisdom, the nurse does an EKG (more electrodes) and then hooks me up to another machine. "How many ways can you look at one little heart?" I ask her and she tsk-tsk's and says my heart chakra (Huh?) needs to open up and this is the Holtor Monitor that I will wear for twenty-four hours so they can see how my heart functions during "normal, every day activity."

That's when I start laughing. There is of course, no way I can explain to the nurse (ex-army or no) that there is no normal in my life. How could I possibly explain that?

As she scrapes my skin, sticks more electrodes on and hooks me up to a small, grey box, she says she is happy to hear me laugh. (The fact that it is potentially the laugh of the insane seems to have no bearing.) She says many of her patients don't laugh, and that the heart chakra (here we go again) is a physical thing and it is possible to actually feel the heart opening when the energy flows in. Well, I have no idea what she is talking about but I get that she is telling me to loosen up and let Jeffrey, the heartless prick, go. That I understand.

Then she gives me this chart, and tells me I have to keep notes. (Ugh, I think to myself. Like I don't already have enough to do.) And by this point I'm checking my watch, thinking that if I'm not out of here in the next ten minutes I'm going to be on the bad mommy train (yet again) and be miserably late picking up the kids from school and she puts her (very muscle-y) hand on my arm and says "This is not complicated. Just write down what you are doing during the day and any abnormalities that occur."

And I want to tell her, "Look, lady, you are pretty nice and all, but you have no idea what ‘abnormalities' are." I want to tell her about pigs and parrots and hair on fire, I want to mention poles and prostitutes and handymen who make you drool and then I remember that she is most likely a Commando or from the Mossad (it appears my imagination is, like my heart, starting to run wild) so instead, I say, "I can do that," (write down the abnormalities) which, oddly, almost makes me feel like I can.

So I get myself dressed, and tuck my heart chart in my purse (there are places to write notes for all sorts of fun stuff: bowel movement, urination, sex (haha)) and I finally manage to get all the goo off my chest and right as the nurse is leaving she turns and says, "I was heartsick once. It's nothing to be embarrassed about. I can tell you're resilient. Just figure out what your heart wants and you'll be fine."

That was it for me. I literally lost my breath for a beat and I thought as my heart did a little crazy dance, "Okay, commando nurse makes profound statement, heart jumps. Gotta write this down," and as I reached for the pencil I looked up to say good-bye and she was gone.

Long story short - I did the patient notes diligently (apparently I pee at least once an hour and my Kiegel's are shot), got the results back (on my answering machine) and irregular heartbeat it was. I mean, you have to admit - how could anyone's heart NOT be irregular after all of this? Seriously, there is only so much one little organ (even a resilient one) can handle.