Divorced Before 30

If I thought that the tears would never come on Wednesday, Thursday brought a deluge. Literally. I woke up feeling nauseous and panicky, realizing that this “vacation” wouldn’t last forever. I went upstairs and ate toast with raspberry jam. No matter how crummy I feel, I’ve always been able to eat. A rare gift of mine. I tried to read the comics—funny is good, right?—and the tears commenced. Soon the Star Tribune was splotchy. I finished the toast, sniffling like a child in desperate need of a nap.

I decided that a long hot soak might do me some good, so I headed out back to the “hot tub house,” a beautiful little screen building that my parents built. I sulked in the hot water, making shapes with the foam and letting my puffy eyes focus dully on the colored lights beneath the water. A whimper escaped, and soon it came uncontrollably—more tears, shaking, grieving, melting. I sat through several jet cycles and just let it flow.

I wrapped up in a bathrobe and went back to bed. Tucker sat quietly next to me as I burrowed under the covers. He can always sense when I’m in trouble or in pain. I felt physically ill about the options before me. Going back to John was impossible, and yet opting out of my marriage felt like admitting defeat. WHACK. What the hell? My brother Kent was the only other person at home, and I was pretty sure he was still asleep. THUMP! Now there was a steady hammering noise, like rain on a tin roof. I emerged from my basement hideout to witness the single most crazy display of weather I’ve ever seen.

Hail the size of golf balls bounced joyfully off the driveway, ricocheting off the garage door and the cedar siding. Kent came running up from the basement, woken by the cacophony. Our cars were both parked outside, and we watched with fascination as Mother Nature kicked the living shit out of them. Larger and larger dents formed on the hoods and the roofs. The hail grew larger, and it seemed like the world might actually be coming to an end. “Cool,” I thought.

For the grand finale, baseball-sized chunks of ice came crashing through the windshields. The rear windows met the same fate. For ten or fifteen minutes, I actually forgot about John. Tears were replaced by wide eyes, and Kent and I made Fourth-of-July-like-exclamations as the hail made its marks. The storm passed, but piles of ice remained, steaming in the August heat. My problems were far from solved, but the summertime ice storm served as a salient reminder that anything is possible.