Divorced Before 30

After a long day of work—oh, and getting divorced—I walked into Julie and Jodi’s house entirely spent. Spent and humbled. Make that spent, humbled, and relieved. But, I soon realized that I had come to the perfect place to let my roller-coaster feelings come to a complete stop. I was greeted at the door by one happy baby, two nurturing mothers, and the tantalizing scent of a simmering curry.

I went down to the guest room to change into my post-work “uniform,” a companionable pair of bright-yellow sweatpants. As I unwound my ponytail, I took a moment to absorb the solemnity of the day. This was the real me, unencumbered by anyone else’s demons. The thought of freedom released a tiny shot of adrenaline into my bloodstream, creating a welcome twist to my strange cocktail of feelings: Spent, humbled, and relieved, with a splash of unadulterated joy.

I saddled up to the kitchen island, where Julie was concocting an Indian feast, and happily accepted a cold Summit EPA. Not only was it a tasty beer, but it was brewed in St. Paul, MN, hometown of my dad and, in fact, my grandparents. The familiar label made me think of my family, and in their absence, I was doubly glad to be hosted by such generous, genuine women.

The evening unfolded with a leisurely meal, lively conversation, and some homegrown music. My talented friends broke out in song, with voice, mandolin, and acoustic bass filling their great room with love. Julie and Jodi often played tunes for their baby, Reuben, who was colicky, and I understood why—the singing, picking, and strumming were mes- mer- izing.

That night, as I pulled up my covers, I said a prayer of thanksgiving for being the only person in the queen-sized bed. Oh, the irony. If only “single me” had known this feeling a few years previous. For every lonely person who goes to bed pining for somebody to love, there’s probably an unhappily married person who wants nothing more than the pleasure of sleeping in solitude. When that sparkly ring went on my finger, I thought I was getting a life partner. What I got instead was a life lesson.

The next morning, I sprang from the bed at the command of my alarm, sliding quickly into running clothes in the dark. As I wove through the streets surrounding the university, I marveled at the little things that people don’t see once commuters and undergrads spilled into the traffic lanes and sidewalks. Crusty oak leaves underfoot. An abandoned boot outside a frat house. Political messages etched in chalk underfoot. With each block, I felt more alive, and as I neared the finish line, I egged myself on, challenging my Adidas-clad feet to race each other home.

I entered the house quietly, kicking off my shoes and sneaking into the kitchen for some water. While I was gone, Jodi had gone on a run of sorts as well. My weakness for jelly doughnuts had been revealed the night before, and she had filed away this factoid for a lovely surprise. “Bismarcks,” as I call them, remind me of my childhood. Every Saturday morning, Mom returned from her garage sale rounds with a bag of doughnuts for her brood. She was a modern-day hunter-gatherer, bringing wide smiles to the faces of four children transfixed by the Smurfs.

I started my first day as a single woman with remarkable optimism, fueled by the realization that sleeping alone was a gift, the knowledge that I could outrun my self-doubt, and the comfort that my family and friends were beside me. And, of course, two jelly doughnuts.