Divorced Before 30

The dangers of small towns are many. For example, it’s nearly impossible to maintain any sense of anonymity during a life crisis. And, the effect is compounded if the small-town girl stayed in the small town to attend one of its two small colleges. A simple trip to the bank has the potential to bring said small-town girl face to face with any number of old family friends who remember the girl—now woman—in diapers. Then there are the former classmates, teammates, coaches, teachers, professors, doctors, and bosses. Throw in a couple ex-boyfriends, and—good lord—leaving the house is a perilous proposition.

My small-town, college-town hometown wasn’t the best place to mourn my pending divorce in private. However, after my Bob Dylan adventure, I saw the benefits of leaving the house. So, two nights after the concert, I actually went out in public—downtown, at night, and (gasp!) during the annual town festival, a classic slice of Americana complete with a beer garden, a rodeo, and people dressed in pioneer garb eating cheese curds.

Flanked with Daniela, Andrea, Megan, and Liz, I hit up my regular downtown spots. I had my favorite sandwich—hummus with no mayo, no onions, extra sauce, and extra peppers, please—at the cafe where my brother and I used to work. The five of us sat crammed into a wooden booth, catching up on each others’ lives over comfort food and a pitcher of beer.

As we progressed down Main Street to our next stop, I caught a glimpse of the event center where my wedding reception had been held the previous summer. The marquee out front announced the nuptials of some other couple, but in my mind’s eye, it read “Emma & Johnny” in plain black and white. I felt a pang of regret, remembering how I cried in the ladies’ room when the DJ shut down the dancing. Everyone thought the bride was a wee bit overserved, and let’s be honest—I was—but deep down, I knew even then that something wasn’t right.

As my friends and I snagged an outdoor table at the riverside pub, I tried to exit the self-flagellation loop. “Breathe. Be here now,” I reminded myself, as I would many times over the coming months. It was, after all, a pretty damn good place to be. Megan’s dad was playing in a jazz quartet on the pub patio, and the intersection of horns, voices, and laughter created a joyful chord that reverberated all around us and, in fact, all around the town.

After the quartet finished its set, we visited with Megan’s parents and sister. I had dreaded seeing people who had been at my wedding, but talking to Megan’s family showed me that I was not just my harshest critic, but quite possibly my only critic. Up until now, I had avoided sharing my news very freely. Now, I felt like getting it over with in one fell swoop. It’s easy to make a fuss over happy life events like weddings. People submit newspaper announcements, send photo cards via U.S. mail with love-themed stamps, and post links to their online photo albums. But I wondered: What’s the appropriate way to share your less desirable news with the world?

We wrapped up the night with a final stop at the corner bar and then marched onward toward home. I love late-night walks through the sleepy neighborhoods of my hometown. With a good buzz and great friends, the mile-long stroll could fly by almost too quickly. As we passed familiar landmarks and houses of childhood friends, I was reminded that while the everyone-knows-your-name visibility of a small town has its drawbacks, there’s also something very comforting about it. Hell, I could probably rent the marquee downtown to announce my divorce, and little old ladies would still make a fuss over me in the grocery store. What would create the desired effect? How about, “Splitsville 4Ever, Emma & Johnny!” Maybe the exclamation mark is a little much?