I wanted to write about the culmination of my week, the places I traveled to, plane, train, automobile, 4000 miles, and the hotel rooms. I wanted to tell you my insights and what I learned, about my future, about my life, about me. In all that I write, I try to be frank that the hope you cling to—“it does get better”—the syntax implying that “believe it or not, you will one day appreciate birds singing and yoga” but it is a process that does not have the consistency of instant oatmeal. But instead, I will tell you today about finding out when your husband marries the other woman.
The opening of film “The First Wives Club” shows the suicide of the ex-wife of a financial tycoon, who recently remarried his young, attractive mistress, the newspaper tossed aside. She is dressed in her finest fur and jewelry, takes a sip of her drink, and plunges off her balcony. Before she does, she goes about her business while she writhes her hands, the ice in her glass rattling, the mascara running under her eyes. “Cynthia was most likely to succeed. When she decided to do something,” narrates Diane Keaton, “she just went ahead and did it.” That is what it feels like.
The culmination of my special week and accomplishment punctuated by a photo circulating of him eating an ice cream cone, travel pack hanging on his shoulders, and a wedding band on his finger. That was not our wedding band. He was not that gaunt when we were married. That cannot be my husband. I called my mother and demanded she tell me what she knew. She knew. This was the only instance she abided my wish not to know what he was doing... (continue reading)