While Josh didn’t give me a green light, he bought a very nice gift for my birthday. I was the proud owner of my first digital camera. He was careful to buy one with just the right specs—he’s good at sorting through models and reading reviews. It was perfect, and we had an action-packed weekend to document.

On Friday night—my actual birthday—we went to dinner at 112 Eatery, the restaurant where we’d lingered late into the evening just hours before our first kiss. Several friends met us for dinner, and it was a laughter-filled evening of small plates and tall pours. And dessert–oh, the dessert! I couldn’t choose a favorite between the tres leches cake and the butterscotch budino.

Perhaps the free-flowing wine was partially to blame, but by the end of dinner, I was standing in the ladies’ room, cursing myself in the mirror as I fought back tears. It wasn’t just that I was, you know, getting older, though Lord knows, that was part of it. I was so tired of feeling emotionally vulnerable. I’d been through so much in the last two years—when did I get to relax and enjoy love?

I unloaded on Josh when we got home, and he surprised me. He went berserk, and I have to confess—I enjoyed it in a perverse sort of way. He could be so emotionally reserved that I often wondered what the hell was going on up there. Now I knew, and that was so much better than acting like everything was just fine. I have little regard for fine. Real life is a hot, stinking mess sometimes.

He insisted that all of my questions about marriage and babies were ruining the romance, ruining any element of surprise that he might be planning. But I didn’t care about surprises—I just wanted him to look me in the eyes and tell me, in-person, out loud, that he wanted me. I didn’t need an elaborate proposal or a fancy ring. The idea of marriage had lost its lustre for me somewhere back in Illinois. I wanted more than an idea. I wanted the action of marriage. The real-life highs and lows, and all the banal stuff in between. With him.

We kissed and made up, and I came to terms with the fact that he was going to do this his way. No emotional appeals on my part would make a difference. So I shut up and enjoyed the rest of the weekend. On Saturday, we went to the Twins-Red Sox game with my brothers and their significant others. It was all fun and games until the 2nd or 3rd inning when I dunked my shiny new camera, full immersion, into my beer. I’d only consumed about two ounces of beer, so I couldn’t blame intoxication. The camera was trashed, and there was nothing I could do but finish the beer and shake it off.

On Sunday morning—Mother’s Day—I hosted my whole family for a rather elaborate brunch. It was such a sweet day. I mean, aside from the mimosas, french toast, and fresh fruit, it was genuinely sweet. “Like a Normal Rockwell picture,” as my mom used to say. My younger brothers were all highly participatory in the family quality time. That hadn’t always been the case. But on this fine spring morning, the whole lot of us walked down to the park after brunch to let toddling Ethan play.

As I watched my brothers egging on my mom to try the kiddie zip line, I knew exactly what I’d been waiting for, fighting for. Back when I’d first realized that my marriage was going to fail, I think what crushed me the most was the loss of the would-be family that I’d constructed in my head. I mistakenly thought that by saying “I do,” all of that would fall into place. Sometimes, life is exactly not what you expect. Case in point: a granny—my mother—flying by on a zip line, hollering like a schoolgirl.

In our first few weeks as homeowners, we were absolute machines. Josh started to build a beautiful cedar fence for Tucker, and I went to town on the interior. Unpacking boxes, hunting for the perfect sofa, and sewing funky throw pillows became my new obsessions. Multiple trips to Home Depot, Target, and IKEA confirmed our suspicions that our 1950s rambler might have strong money-pit potential. We gave up eating out entirely. We were much more interested in spending our dough on curtain rods, power tools, and buckets of expensive low-VOC paint with clever names like “Wet Concrete.”

We were the picture of blissful domesticity until the untimely death of our washing machine. But, what was another six or seven hundred bucks that we didn’t have, right? “Forget the bar, baby—let’s go to Sears!” And the funny thing was, it felt good. The appliance dude botched my credit application and issued my card under my former married name—egads—but nothing could stand in the way of my happiness. I thought that our new front-loading, high-efficiency wonder was pure utilitarian sexiness, and it was then that I realized that I was officially old.

Never fear, dear readers—we were still having fun. The house had a full second kitchen, and my home-brewing darling was busy setting up his “Brouwerij Basement,” which translates to something along the lines of basement in which one boils giant kettles of liquid boyhood (with Belgian flair, naturally). Josh had sole jurisdiction over the basement kitchen, and I quickly decided that I’d take no responsibility for anything that went on down there.

Did I ever envision that life in my thirties would include having a kegerator in my family room? No. No, I did not. Nor did I expect to be divorced and shacked up with a good buddy from college, but that’s what makes life so interesting. In a book or a movie, a nicely timed twist of plot can be a real thrill, but in real life, it’s nothing short of breathtaking. As I stuffed a load of commingled boxer shorts and flowered undies into the new washer, I smiled. “Truly,” I thought, “God must get a real kick out of watching people rise up from rock bottom to plain old peace.”

*****

Blog Housekeeping

I am thrilled to be the July 14th featured blogger on SITS! The Secret is in the Sauce is a fabulous community of women bloggers who support each other by leaving comments.

My blogoir (blog meets memoir) format is a little unique. The events of this post took place in August and September of 2007.

If you’re visiting for the first time, please consider starting my blogoir at the beginning, “How I Left My Husband on My Lunch Break,” or checking out my Fast Track page to get up to speed on the story. You can also find me on Facebook, where you can see photos that relate to my story, and on twitter. Thanks for visiting!

In addition to working toward the three goals, I’d also managed to move out of my parents’ basement. Living there had been instrumental to my healing, but moving out had given me proof that the healing had indeed occurred. My time in the basement had definitely served its purpose. On top of the psychological rewards, I’d paid off about 75% of the debt from my marriage, and symbolically, that meant detaching myself even further from my former life.

Getting out of debt meant that I could really move forward, and Josh and I had been talking about buying a place together. Yes, that’s right. I was recently divorced and was seriously contemplating buying a place with my boyfriend of six months. It sounds crazy, but it just felt right.

My birthday dinner was a delightful mix of the important people in my life: Josh, my parents, some of the Picnic Leaguers, my running buddies, my roommate, and even one my brothers. It felt like the perfect day, and the birthday love continued. A couple weeks later, Josh gave me a belated gift that he hadn’t had time to finish. It was a beautiful pencil drawing that he’d titled “Besar,” which means “to kiss” in Spanish.

It was me and Josh—softly sketched organic shapes—sweetly intertwined. It was hard to tell where one body ended and another began, and that was perfect, because that’s exactly how I felt when we were together. He wrote a beautiful card that explained the drawing—words that expressed things I already knew, but which felt wonderful to have affirmed. He wrote of the comfort he felt with me and how happy I made him, and my heart felt all gooey when I read it. I knew what painstaking care he took with his drawings, most of which were incredible likenesses of photographs that inspired him. This was a much more abstract piece, and I loved that he had taken a risk on it.

Maybe I was a complete loon to be contemplating a commitment as large as a shared mortgage so soon after my divorce. I probably was. But I had a good feeling about my thirties, and I thought it was high time that I started trusting my gut. After all, the key to happiness is not chasing after what you’re supposed to want. It’s realizing what you do want and making it your own.

You can look to your family, your friends, and your religion for guidance, but in the end, you also need to reach into the wisdom located between your own ears and within your own chest. Now, I don’t know much about gnome mythology, but if I had to guess, I’d posit that the happiest gnomes trust their tubby little guts. So as I entered my thirties, I gave myself permission—orders, even—to do the same.

On a cold December night, Josh and I met up with the Picnic Leaguers at a crowded bar near the University of Minnesota. I wasn’t sure whether Josh had mentioned my divorce to anyone, but I was still feeling incredibly self-conscious about it. My brain wasn’t doing me any favors, and I assumed that my failed marriage made me a lot less attractive in everyone’s eyes.

The Picnic League guys and gals were an entertaining lot. The banter included your basic bullshitting, the occasional heated political discussion, and plenty of good-natured ribbing. As the only girl in a family of boys, I was accustomed to being teased and challenged. But when one of Josh’s buddies joked that he didn’t want to “get too attached” to me—Josh’s latest girlfriend—I felt like I’d been punched in the gut.

Josh was a 30-year-old bachelor, so naturally, he’d introduced numerous dates and girlfriends to his friends over the years. One liability of dating nice people is that when you’re ready to say “adios,” your friends and family are sometimes understandably bummed. They’ve invested time and energy into getting to know your significant other, too. In fact, I’m pretty sure that my own dear mother was emotionally exhausted from the chronology of my love life.

I managed to smile and swig my way through the rest of the gathering, but later that night, when I crawled into bed next to Josh, I buried my head in his neck and sobbed. I was so damn tired of the whole thing: the dating, the forming attachments, the questioning, the breaking up. Repeat ad nauseam, and oh, why not throw a dysfunctional marriage and a divorce into the mix?

Things felt different with Josh, but I didn’t expect anyone else to see that. Still, I hoped that our friends and family would take a chance on us as couple. If they could believe that we had a fair shot of making it, I just might let myself believe it, too.

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.

Julie, Jodi, and their five-month-old son, Reuben, lived in a gorgeous “green” home that they built using straw bale construction. It was full of repurposed materials and personal touches, including kitchen counters made from chalkboard slate they salvaged from an old schoolhouse. The stuccoed walls were stained with earthy shades of matte clay paint, and the quiet room I stayed in was a deep red that was counterintuitively calming. With its wide open spaces and accents of marvelous wood, the home—much like its owners—emanated warmth and character.

On Sunday night, I sat and talked to Julie and Jodi about the last few months of my marriage. I had largely kept quiet while in the fray, as opening up would’ve meant admitting to myself how bad things had gotten. So I recounted bits and pieces of the hellish summer, my escape to Minnesota, and the divorce process. Julie and Jodi were curious about all my name-changing, and I explained that it was relatively easy, since it’s built into the marriage and divorce documents.

Before they had Reuben, the two of them decided to create their own family name—rather than choose between their names or hyphenate, they crafted an original name out of words that had significance for them. It was shocking to hear how much it cost to have their names legally changed. It hadn’t cost me anything—beyond the fairly modest cost of a marriage license—for the “privilege” of adding John’s last name to mine.

In my humble opinion, U.S. marriage law could use some work. The legal aspects of marriage should be entirely separate from the (many, wonderful, diverse) religious traditions associated with marriage. I got married in a church, and guess what?—the pastor didn’t officiate, or even attend, my divorce, and the church didn’t offer to help me work through the end of the union. How was I supposed to reconcile my “I do” with what I was about to do, which was go to the courthouse and take it back?

Technically, the legal and religious aspects of marriage are quite separate, but people don’t seem to get that. If your church doesn’t want to marry certain people, well, that’s just fine with me. But your courthouse should provide equal access to the legal contract. All adults should have the same opportunity to enter into what might become a phenomenal marriage, a complete nightmare, or some middling form of coexistence. All couples should have the same shot at making it to their “golden anniversary” party—to eat cake, surrounded by their progeny, in a house full of memories. Matching cardigan sweaters optional.

Maybe this is a radical idea, but I also think it should be a tiny bit harder to get married and a great deal easier to get divorced. Currently, it takes a hell of a lot more time, money, and paperwork to get divorced than it does to get married. Sure, weddings are ridiculously expensive. But you don’t have to throw a lavish party to get legally married. The current laws make it easy for a man and woman to get hitched quickly (Vegas, baby!) and painfully difficult for people who can’t afford a divorce attorney to free themselves from what are sometimes terrible situations.

Can I get an “AMEN!?” At the very least, I hope I can get an “I’m trying to understand where you’re coming from, sister,” because life is more rich when we attempt to see things from another perspective.

After the heavy conversations with Julie and Jodi, I went to bed with an equally heavy heart and a self-help book. (Believe it or not, someone actually wrote Chicken Soup for the Divorced Soul. But that’s an aside, and it’s not the book I read.) Sometimes, when life feels impossibly confusing, it’s reassuring to wander around a bookstore in search of written respite. So with my latest find in hand, I snuggled into the soft bed in Julie and Jodi’s red room and read and prayed and cried and slept. In that order.

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.

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?

My social life consisted of deep conversations with my dog, phone therapy sessions with our marriage counselor back in Illinois, $75-per-hour phone calls with my divorce lawyer, and the occasional interaction with other humans who lived at the house. Who, I might add, had to talk to me because we’re related. I hadn’t even gotten together with my friends who lived in Minneapolis. It just took too much life.

So when Dad invited me to go to a concert with him and two of my brothers that Thursday night, I kindly refused. A concert? On a school night? Anyone who’s experienced depression can speak to its uncanny ability to make supposedly fun things sound like utter hell.

Nevertheless, on Thursday afternoon, I found myself riding in a pickup truck, bound for Rochester, MN, to see Bob Dylan play at a minor league ballpark. The concert posse included Dad, my brothers Andy and Skipp, and their friend who everyone calls Buckshot.

The guys had been planning this trip for months, even getting hotel rooms in Rochester so everyone could indulge in overpriced, shitty beer to their heart’s content. Why, in God’s name, had I let these people talk me into this? They were all about fun; I was all about lolling around in pajamas, bemoaning my ruined, pathetic life.

In hindsight, I realize why Dad and the boys forced me to go along. People show their love and concern in all manner of ways. Some people bake brownies. Others buy expensive gifts or send thoughtful cards. The men in my family get you drunk.

Fast forward to about 9 p.m., and all was right in my world. I sat in the outfield grass, barefoot and surrounded by plastic cups of beer and jovial kinsmen. As I gulped down the last few drops of boozy goodness, a brother would appear with a fresh supply. Bob was delivering a stellar show, and the energy was magical. A full moon lit up the smiling faces of fans who swayed in the warm summer air.

Bob played an encore, and I wanted the music to continue forever. Maybe I would just sleep on the well-groomed grass for a couple of years. No one would need to know. The band started to pack up, and the fans scattered. I was distraught. No, no—the fun must go on!

I convinced Dad that we should try to catch a glimpse of Bob backstage. We bumbled through the backyards of the unfortunate souls who lived next to Mayo Field. Sadly, an orange snow fence stood between us and the tour bus, and my quest met a strong dose of reality.

Not as strong, however, as the dose that greeted me on Friday morning when I rose early to get back for work. Because there’s nothing like more grease and salt to soothe your hungover soul, Dad and I hit the McDonald’s drive-thru. Riding shotgun in the pickup, I munched on my egg and cheese muffin and thought about the previous night’s shenanigans. I remembered nursing the never-ending beer, searching for Bob Dylan, and eating late-night pizza. Blech.

A few miles up the road, I declared an emergency. Dad pulled over, and I stumbled through the weeds and prairie grass. I retched in the ditch along Highway 52, picked myself up, and climbed back into the truck. I was OK! In fact, I was more than OK. By dragging me along to the show, the men in my life had opened my (now rather bloodshot) eyes: My life was far from over. There would be more fun. There would be more smiles. There might even be more love.

Hopefully, there wouldn’t be any more beer for a good, long while.