2
Six months later
At ten o’clock on a Saturday night, while many new divorcees hit the promising bars of Manhattan, I sit by the fireplace in my one-bedroom apartment wearing a cheap, Target robe with an empty wine glass in hand. I’ve spent the evening flipping through my wedding album, taking out the photos and setting fire tothem.
I come to the very last page, and when I yank the picture of Harold shoving cake into my face from the protective sleeve, a piece of graph paper floats to thefloor.
The second I pick it up and glance over it, my jaw tightens. There, in Harold’s chicken scratch, is a sex schedule. And not ours. Anger bubbles inside as I stare at the column titled: Places. Underneath is a list of stores, parks, and elevators. I ball up the paper, place it on the hearth, and hold a lighter to it, watching the red flames eat away at theedges.
Maybe I was the boringone.
Another glass of wine and I’m scrollingFacebook.
Images and memes fly across my news feed. And when it comes to a halt, well, it’s like I’m onWheel of Fortuneand the ticker just stopped on bankrupt.Baa-dum-doom-doo.
Smack dab in the middle of my screen is a post of Harold and the twenty-year-old housekeeper, Valeria, on a beach in the Bahamas. He’s sunburned with a beer in hand. Even though the selfieheshared of them is off-centered, all I can stare at is Valeria’s smile. Harold never posted anything personal on social media when we were together. He didn’t do selfies. He always wore sunscreen and only drank unsweet tea. His spreadsheet sex was always limited to the bedroom. “Well, someone has evidently loosened up a bit,” I grumble and toss the phone to thefloor.
That’sit.
I’ve got to dosomething.
I’ve got to step outside my comfortzone.
I don’t want to bethatgirl. I don’t want my destiny to be isolation…although, there is a certain allure to being the crazy cat lady. In a desperate bid to add some spice to my life, I grab my laptop from the coffee table and type in the web address to HookUp. Steph swears by the dating site, and at this point, I’m eager enough to tryit.
As soon as the pink and blue log pops up, I crack my knuckles and flip the little plastic tap on my Franzia wine, filling my glass.Again.
I type in my name, age, profession, and relationship status—which I note mocks my career choice—then I stare at the text box requesting details about who Iam.
It shouldn’t be hard to talk myself up, but itis.
If I say I’m fun, I soundconceited.
Smart means I’marrogant.
If I try too hard to come across witty, I’ll just soundpathetic.
I could say I’m shit at using chopsticks…Great! I’ll just leave itblank.
I hit “continue,” and the computerbeeps.
Evidently HookUp doesn’t want me to skip the “About Me”section.
Fine, asshole.My fingers fly over the keys, and the result is:Fun-loving girl with an admiration for the beach and a goodbook.
I stare at that, and I do what any middle-aged woman who realizes her life can be summed up in thirteen words would do: I down my glass ofwine.
Steph swears this is my time to have fun. My last hoorah before turning forty—five years is the blink of an eye in her mind. Soon enough, I’ll be pushing sixty. Then any man that would want anything to do with my “dusty bat cave”—Steph’s words, not mine—will need Viagra, and just my luck, he won’t haveMedicaid.
I palm my face and mentally insist I’m overreacting. I can write whatever I want about myself in that little biography section, because surely, no fruitful connection will come from a dating app calledHookUp.
After staring at the screen for ten minutes, I come up with nothing. I can’t evenmakeup an interesting life. Maybe Iwasmeant for Harold and his stupid fuckingspreadsheets.
This is my life, I tellmyself.
Tomorrow, I’m going to get acat.
Ortwo.
Orten.
