From Mrs to Misses

I'm divorced!

At approximately 9:30am on Wednesday, after 6.5 years of marriage, 12 months of separation, a transition relationship, a 53.75 pound weight loss (197.25 lbs this morning!), and 2 attempts at the court house with my brain-damaged lawyer in tow, I am a single woman again. I'm a divorcée, or for the Old Testamenters, a Fallen Woman. I've fallen and I can't get up! Except that I haven't fallen. I had fallen, and tripped myself up besides. I'm sure eventually I'll reveal all the stuff around that, but suffice to say I was on the floor for a while. I might have stayed there forever, but one evening I asked my husband to move out, and then I began the process of getting back up.

I'm glad to be divorced, since the relationship is over, but I still have some lingering sadness over The End, as it were. We made a person together, after all. But things end, and that's rarely a reason to dance or declare triumph. I won't betray confidences by divulging details, so suffice to say that we had problems we could not surmout, and eventually, I just gave up.

We've managed the transition from romantic couple to People No Longer Involved But Who Have A Child Together. The issues I have with him are no longer my business, and that keeps it easier to remain civil and even pleasant with one another. But no matter the state of that relationship. I am single now, without legal attachments except for my son. I can claim Single or Head of Household on my taxes next year, but not Married Filing Jointly or Married Filing Separate because I am married no longer. I am 41 years old, divorced from my son's father, and single. Sing-L. Like that old Sesame Street song, "Sing."

Sing.
Single Song.
Single Loud, Single Strong.

That's me: single loud, and single strong. Big Bird must be spinning in his nest. Well good, because I never liked that whiney clucker. I've always been more aligned with the Cookie Monster. C is for Cookie, and Sing is for Single; that's good enough for me. I am a Mrs. no more.

So, just as he and I got married and then went back to work, we got divorced and headed off in our separate directions. I am forever grateful that he came with me to witness the Judgment of Dissolution, because if he hadn't, I'd be writing this post next week (or the week after, since my attorney is such a colossal dumkof). So, thank you, "(e)X", for being there for me one last time.

My only other experience face to face with a judge was in Cook County, downtown, and the judge, a woman (and this really irritates me since I so loathe down-talking a sister) was so incredibly cranky that I hated her before I even stood up. Then, of course, we spoke. I still get the Mean Reds sometimes when I think about her. So I have a little baggage when it comes to county courthouses.

Because of that, I'd worn some semblance of Court Clothing in the morning, since I didn't want the judge to yell at me for disrespecting the bench, or some other horrifying and humiliating event. I was comfortable, of course, since everything in my closet hangs on me, but I wanted to change before I went back to work. Since my weight loss became visible, I never wear loose clothes. I want to show my figure, even in its 197-pound imperfection, and I can scarcely do that in my 'hey, everyone, look at my buttless profile!' trousers. I dashed home, chucked my "dress clothes" and yanked the nearest pair of jeans off the hanger.

I own 3 pair of jeans right now, one a 16 M, one a 14 M, and the last a faded blue denim in 14W. I've kept this last pair because they were my 'skinny' jeans when I was fat; I couldn't get them up on to my hips, let alone closed or zipped. And these were the pants I mentioned in my first post, when, at 225 pounds, I gave up on the Regular Sizes, swallowed my hefty pride and bought an item of clothing with a "W" attached to the number. So, these jeans mean something to me. Admittedly, they mean something dark and heinous, but it's something important all the same.

I'd noticed that they were getting a bit baggy in the thigh, and that I had this weird clump of jean on the sides of my legs when I stood up. But they have a long rise and they sit at my natural waist-a talent that currently-manufactured jeans cannot summon. I look good in jeans that fit and follow my natural shape. I'm a curvy girl, even when I'm thin. If I wear men's clothes, or anything shapeless, that is exactly how I look. Gunny Sax dresses from the 70s? Had to pass. Flashdance baggy crap in the 80s? Not for me. All that pants-resting-on-butt-crack or the I-can't-find-my-breasts-with-both-hands-and-a-mammogram sweatshirt made "sassy" by people who think that Ace of Base belongs on the oldies station....I can't do it. Let's not even get into the Youngin's wear that passes more for what I threw out a year ago and was then summarily destroyed by the raccoons than anything resembling 'fashionable'. It just isn't me.

Even when I'm sick or alone in the house, my clothes must fit. I can't wear things that hide my figure, and now, So even though these 14W jeans were starting to look (gasp!) unflattering, I kept them. These were the jeans I pulled off the hanger Wednesday morning. I slid them on, zipped and buttoned them close, cinched my belt around my waist and then took a look in the mirror. Sag. They sagged on me. They don't fit anymore. My last pair of Women's jeans is too big. I yanked them off, dropped them into the 'put these into the back of the van and get those things to the resale shop already, ya stupid bitch!' pile, and slithered into my 14 L. That is, my 14 L M. Long Misses. I am a W no more. I am now and completely a Misses.

Judgment for Dissolution granted.

Signed,

A the M