Divorced Before 30

The day after my nephew was born, I hit the road for Illinois bright and early, parents and pup in tow. It was Friday morning, and we had 48 hours to orchestrate a highly profitable garage sale, box up all my worldly belongings, clean the shit out of the house, and pack up a U-Haul trailer. Is this what my parents signed up for when they decided to get pregnant back in 1976?

Well, yes, actually. Yes, it’s what they willingly signed up for. And they’re damn good at it, too. The people who I call “Mom” and “Dad” have the unconditional love thing nailed down. They’re the kind of parents who are willing to use their vacation days to help their kid paint her living room. Hell, I don’t even want to use my vacation days to do that, but my folks seem pleased as punch to make my life easier.

In addition to home improvement projects and moving, my parents are fantastic at taking care of kids. Their kids, your kids—even the offspring of complete strangers. They’ve metaphorically adopted a passel of kids over the years. Short kids, tall kids, wide kids, and scrawny kids. You get the picture—they love them all the same. Teetering toddlers, testy teens, and even “kids” with scraggly goatees. Goody-two-shoes darlings who are wound a bit too tight, screw-ups and goofballs, and kids who just can’t get it right.

My parents give and give to all these kids, and then they give some more. And, as one of the lucky “kids,” I can attest that we never did anything so spectacular to warrant such devotion. So, people like Mom and Dad are the reason I’m entirely convinced: Love is the primary reason we’re all here. On the planet, not the world wide web.

So, the moral of the story is that I brought the right crew with me to Illinois for Operation Purge. After a long day of driving, we pulled into the driveway of the rental house that I had shared with John. He’d left town a few days earlier, but I still felt sick. I took all the ick, yuck, and goo that was circulating through my brain and channeled it into a drastic effort to purge and, hopefully, to purify.

If “it” was a wedding gift, I didn’t want it. There were so many gorgeous things from the usual suspect stores. The registry of my so-called dreams was marching out the door. Glassware, barware, linens, and random handy gadgets. I could have saved it all for my next apartment, but I just didn’t want to look at my lovely taupe comforter and think less-than-comforting thoughts.

On Saturday morning, we sold and sold and sold. Bye-bye, Crate and Barrel stemware; hasta la vista, luxurious towels. At closing time, a well-populated family piled out of a pickup and practically cleaned us out. As they drove off with a truck bed full of cousins and my dining room chairs, I sighed a huge sigh of disbelief. In the last 24 hours, I had purged my house of 99% of the tangible things that would ever—could ever—remind me of John.

I wish I could say that the garage sale alone was a huge relief, but it took some Thai noodles and a beer to put me at ease that night. I couldn’t help but fixate on Monday afternoon. At one o’clock post meridien, I would achieve something monumental, something to which I’d never aspired. And as disappointed as I was in myself, it was of great consolation that those kooky, kid-loving parents of mine wouldn’t be any less proud.