My First Post-Divorce Breakup, Part 1: He Made Me Brownies

Sometimes in relationships you can pinpoint the moment everything changed, the “before and after” moment. With Max, it was when we were in the guest room of our condo and he finally told me that he was not attracted to me. With Jason, I knew I had to end things when he made brownies.

As I have shared, we are so very different, and I mean in every way from upbringing to education to hobbies. I was rolling with it and having fun, but once he said he loved me – and kept saying it – I realized things had taken a turn into something I neither wanted nor was ready for. For one thing, I wasn’t interested in being in a real “you’re my boyfriend” situation. Furthermore, there would be no point to that setup since I knew we had no legit future. And most of all, I would never actually fall in love with him. Of that, I was and still am quite certain. 

I know, I know… you’re like, Kat, what’s your damage about delicious brownies?! I will tell you and risk that you will think I’m nuts (no pun intended).

On with my first post-divorce breakup tale...

He Made Me Brownies, So I Had to Dump Him

Even though I didn’t care for the arrangement, Jason would stay sleeping in my bed in the morning after I would leave for work. (He works late at a restaurant, so it was either seeing each other late or not at all.) One time he slept PAST NOON in MY APARTMENT. This was not OK and I told him so. Like get your ass up at a normal hour, pee, and get out of my apartment. Anyway, this was our setup since the beginning of September when I moved into my apartment. And he was staying here more and more often. While I enjoyed having him in my home, I was also starting to feel a little suffocated and freaked out (that is, when we weren't having Incredible Sex).

So, it was a Thursday and I left Jason sleeping in my bed. Late morning, he texted me saying he got me eggs. I thought this was odd but kind of thoughtful since the night before I’d said I’d run out of eggs to make the dinner I’d been planning. But, he doesn’t have a key to my apartment, so I asked how he did this. He responded that he took the spare key and went out and came back.

Strike One. You took MY spare key, left, and came back?
How about go home?!

Then he says he was making brownies.

Strike Two. What? Brownies? Why?
And with my brownie mix, my canola oil, my tap water
(and fine, his egg).
How about go home?!

Clearly, I was already irritated as I read these texts at work. Then when I came home, I nearly flipped out. Well, not really, but I was ticked!

First, Jason claimed that he did the dishes. To me, that means everything is back in its place, just as he found it. Instead, it meant some crap was on the counter and the dishwasher was full.

Next, I saw evidence that he had used my beloved standmixer, which my sister and brother-in-law just gave me as a housewarming present. (I’d lost the one I’d had in the divorce.) Speaking of evidence, there were small bits of brownie batter all over the place! Funny, but I thought grownups cleaned up stuff like that…

Moving on, I saw that he had eaten about a third of the pan of brownies. Not hot. Then I noticed that my TV’s keyboard and remotes were not put away. It dawned on me: he made the brownie batter, baked them for the requisite 35 minutes, let them cool, then chowed. That’s a long time hanging out in my new apartment, sitting on my new couch, and watching my new TV, and without me!

And the thing that really made smoke come out of my ears was a drinking glass in the sink RIM SIDE DOWN. Max used to do this all the time and it pissed me off to no end because not only did he not put the damn glass in the dishwasher, but now there was a ring in the sink for yours truly to clean up.

But when Max did it, those glasses and that kitchen sink belonged to him too. Nothing in this apartment belonged to Jason. My glass rim rage turned into a realization: Jason is thinking of my TV, my glasses, my kitchen,  MY APARTMENT, as his second home.

Strike Three. This wasn't his apartment. It's mine.
And I had to reclaim it.

I have been divorced for eight months, but I’ve only lived alone for six weeks. I desperately needed my own space. I yearned to come home and know that everything was as I left it. It took so much time (not to mention lost dollars and plenty of tears) to finally move into the apartment I’d dreamed of. As a result, I admit that I’m kind of possessive and territorial about my precious one bedroom apartment (in case you weren't already picking up on that). This might sound a little bratty and crazy… unless you’ve ever had to live with an ex. Those of you who have are probably nodding your heads!

So, I knew I had to break up with Jason.

In Part 2, I’ll share the sad and pathetic details of the breakup and its aftermath. As you can probably guess, he didn’t take it well. In Part 3, I'll share... well, you'll find out!

I (Almost) Cried at Mile 7 of My Half Marathon

Well, dear readers, I thought I would be telling you about ending things with Jason yesterday. But, I couldn’t get a hold of him yesterday, and then today he showed up at my office with these. Shit. So, yeah, I didn’t break up with him yet. Instead, I’d like to tell you about my first half marathon and I’ll try to go easy on the gym teacher metaphors.

13.1 miles and three beers later,
I'm still standing.

The sky was a brilliant blue against the gently changing colors of autumn that define New England. I was approaching mile 7 just before Elizabeth Park in Hartford, Connecticut. I was running alone (but with 10,000+ other runners). Physically, I felt pretty good – no blisters or chafing, no strained muscles, no dehydration. 

But a lump was forming in my chest. A sob was welling up in my throat.

What? Why the hell did I feel like crying?!

I have wanted to do a half marathon for two years now, ever since Sue and I ran 10K that we trained for together and totally kicked ass on our time. But then I hurt my IT band at a 15K race two months later, and I landed in physical therapy for five months. At the same time, my marriage was disintegrating. Then I filed for divorce and we put our condo on the market. I couldn’t take on the training and add yet another challenge to my life.

But this summer, five months after my divorce was final, it was time. Thanks to no IT band problems, plenty of yoga, and a good therapist, I was ready to add the half marathon challenge to my life. I signed up with Jen (also half marathon rookie) and another girlfriend. Let’s do this!

I followed a Hal Hignon training plan diligently. I did some of my runs alone and some with my friends. I found myself falling in love with these training runs and the cleansing effect on my body and soul.

Halfway into my training, we got the offer on our condo. For all of the insanity in my life during those three weeks, I clung to my training. It was order in the midst of the chaos of packing up my condo, finding a new place to live, and most of all, saying goodbye to Max and the life we shared.

So here I was, race day, and my three months of training had totally paid off. I felt good! So what was up with these almost-tears forming?!

When I ran that 10K with Sue, Max was waiting at the finish line with a huge smile on his face. Today, he probably didn’t even remember that I was doing this race. My life was so very different from when I made this goal. And fuck, I’ve been through a lot! Poor me! 

As if on cue, Fighter came on. [Cliché alert!]

Makes me that much stronger

Makes me work a little bit harder

It makes me that much wiser

So thanks for making me a fighter

I clawed into those lyrics. I focused on my strength and not the pain (mental or physical). I told myself, I am a bad ass and I can totally do this! I could survive years of rejection from the man I loved, so I totally could survive this! Thank you very much, Christina Aguilera.

My pace picked up from my slowest mile (9:37/mile) to 9:28, then 9:10, then 9:05. Then came mile 12, and again, I had that What The Hell Am I Doing?! moment. I want a beer or a coffee and a recliner! Screw this race crap!

Desperate times call for desperate measures. I put on Irene Cara’s Flashdance for some 1980s inspiration. One of my all time favorite quotes is from this song:

Take your passion and make it happen.

I was passionate and focused enough that I made this goal a reality. I got a fresh burst of energy.

I ran that last mile in 8:44.

I finished the race in exactly two hours, a personal best pace for me! Even though I'd had plenty of support leading up to the race, I loved that I ran 13.1 miles on my own. 

As I enjoyed post-race Shipyard Pumpkinhead beers at a nearby bar with my friends, I thought of Max again. He is an amazing runner and he would be so proud of my accomplishment. I pulled out my phone and texted him a picture of me at the finish line holding my medal. He wrote right back, asking about my time, how I felt, and so on. He was there the day I set this goal for myself two years ago, so it felt right to share the goal realization moment with him.

Did you have a post-divorce goal?

See also: Relieve Stress Safely While Running, Sweating Out The Sadness: Can Exercise Help You Grieve? 

The I Love You Fail, Incredible Sex, and Our Impending Judgment Day

"Kat, are you my girl?"

My quick breath was slowing. My feet cramped from arching so intensely. My mind was totally blank.

“Kat,” Jason whispered in my ear.

In a euphoric daze, I lifted my head off Jason's chest to encounter an intense look in his green eyes.

“I love you.”

“Huh?” I articulately grunted as I snapped my head up with a start. Way to snap a girl out of her post-orgasm fog.

“I love you.”

Always the graceful one in such moments, I impulsively covered his mouth with my hand and looked away. “Don’t say that. Don’t say that right now. I can’t…”

The next day, Jason would refer to this moment as “the big I Love You Fail.”

Other than my wonderful father and brother, only two guys have told me that they loved me: Max and the boyfriend I lost my virginity to in 1998. Now, here I was, only seeing Jason for about six weeks and he claims he’s in love with me.

Jason has been trying hard for weeks to get me to commit on some level, and I just can’t/won't. In fairness, I made it quite clear from the first very date that I needed things to go slowly and I was NOT looking for a relationship. Meanwhile, he has steadily fallen for me and hasn’t been shy about telling me. 

• He has asked repeatedly if I’m “his girl.” I say I’m my own girl. 
• He asked me to come to a family party. I said I wasn’t ready for that. 
• He asked when he might meet my parents. I said it would take a LONG ASS TIME for any guy to meet my parents. 
• He asked if I would ever want to get married again. I said I didn’t even want to hear the M word anytime soon. 

So, yeah, can’t accuse me of being unclear with my words.

On the other hand, we spend a lot of time together. Since he works late at the restaurant, we have a lot of sleepovers. He stays asleep in my bed after I go to work. Since I’ve moved into my apartment he’s come over most Sundays for dinner. I told him I’m not dating or sleeping with anyone else. And I will tell you, dear readers, that sometimes I wish I could take the way he makes me feel and wrap myself up in him. A Jason Blanket, if you will.

Here’s the real kicker, given the marriage I just got out of: we have incredible sex and a lot of it. Not surprisingly, we cannot get enough of it! It’s like nothing either of us have ever had. It can be sweet, it can be dirty, it can sensitive, and it can be a little rough. I’m just guessing, but I don’t think this kind of sexual compatibility is easy to come by. It is so good I'm naming it!!

I think the Incredible Sex is the best and worst thing that could happen to us. You see, I don’t picture Jason and me together for the long haul. For me, he’s a sweet, funny guy who makes me feel special and very, very sexy right now. What more do I need than a Mr. Right Now? And I’ll be damned if I’m going to walk away from Incredible Sex if I don’t have to. (Hmmm, am I the worst person ever?)

Jason sees me as wife material, maybe in part because I’m the first woman he’s dated who actually has her life in order and doesn’t have daddy issues or whatever. Honestly I don’t know how he can think that we have a real future when we’re so different, and in ways that I’m certain would eventually drive us apart. I can’t help but wonder if the Incredible Sex is making him believe that his feelings for me are stronger than they really are? I don’t know.

I found out today, one week after the I Love You Fail, that the two month mark is “Judgment Day,” which I assume is when he is going to tell me that either I need to commit to being His Girl or I go back to my vibrator. Sadly, I will probably have to let him dump me. I want to be with him, but I don’t want him to waste his time with me either, given that I know he wants to get married, have kids, and do all that crap that sounds unappealing and suffocating to me right now.

So this leaves me in a weird spot. He tells me he loves me – still! – and I just don’t answer. I want to be with him now even though I see no future for us (but he clearly does).

As Jason says, “Shit happens.”

Have you dated someone who loved you but you didn’t feel the same way? Or, have you been the one with my stronger feelings than the other person? How did you handle the imbalance?

Driving My Ex-Husband's Car and Dumping the Memories

If you had the option to own something that you strongly associate with your ex, would you buy it? Could you disassociate the memories of the ex from the object you want?

I did in the name of getting a car I like for a price I love.

My new ride!

Max no longer needs his car, a 2002 Honda in very good condition. I drive a 2005 Sentra with an irritatingly small trunk and no sunroof. I’ve always coveted the Honda, so we discussed having me buy his car off of him.

Max was willing to give me an excellent price under two conditions: I get a small dent repaired (mishap with a pole in Lillian’s garage two years ago that he never repaired) and buy new tires. In his words, “I know the dent isn’t a safety issue, but I just don’t want you driving around in a dented car.” I thought that was sweet -- he's always wanted me to drive a nicer car.

I was chatting with my brother about this impending deal, and he asked me a good question: “Are you sure it will be OK to have Max’s car? Like will there be any issues with memories with that car?”

Fair point.

I do in fact have many memories of Max and me in the Honda since 2005.

We took our first roadtrip together to Bangor, Maine, to spend a weekend with his college friends. It would be at least 12 hours in the Honda, just the two of us. I remember saying to Nora, “I’m either going to come home more in love with him or I will have dumped him!” Max and I returned even more smitten with each other.

Countless times, we went to visit his college friends and their two children, who live about an hour away from us. We loved playing with their kids. Max and I would drive home talking about the adorable things the kids said and how much we admired his friends as parents. “When we have kids,” I used to say, “we will do team parenting, just like them.” 

In the Honda, ae drove to his parents’ in New England house for my first visit. I was nervous but so excited to see Max’s hometown and the house where he grew up. When we would visit, he loved to take me out in the car, sunroof open, and just cruise around. He’d tell me that was where he had cross country practice and over there was his old buddy Tom’s house.

Sometimes on our drives to New England I would read to him. We laughed together as I read Me Talk Pretty One Day. I shuddered and he playfully called me a wus as I read The Hunger Games.

But then there are the sad Honda memories.

We took his car the first time we saw a urologist about his lack of libido. (I knew he’d never go straight to counseling, so I suggested getting him physically checked first.) The climate in the car was cool, to say the least.

Then there were many trips to therapists, often in the Honda. The rides there and back would just suck. I always desperately hoped that the therapy session would get Max to open up to me on the way home, but it never went that way. Any sign of progress in the session would disappear as soon as we were back in the car, back in regular life where he would hide from his demons.

I will never forget the drive Thanksgiving 2010. We were driving to Max's parents’ for the holiday and his depression was in full swing. He was cold and distant. I can’t remember what he said (or didn’t say), but I ended up crying. In fact, I cried in that front passenger seat for almost three hours straight. Not once did he reach over and touch my hand or tell me it would be OK. I said to him, “What the hell is wrong with you that you can sit next to your wife when she crying like this and you don’t say a word?” Silence. Through my tears, I gazed out the window as the bare trees on the Mass Pike flew by.

He drove us to the last therapy session that we had together, the one when I knew in my heart that there was no hope left for us. I cried so hard after that appointment that I couldn’t speak.

He drove me in that Honda to the train station when I left him for a month in hopes he’d figure himself out and come get me. I rode in that same car a month later when he came to pick me up. We were both quiet on the ride home, unsure of how to interact with each other. I tried to look busy with staring out the window.

And finally we rode in the Honda to the courthouse on the day we got divorced. We sat in the car after a judge declared our marriage was over, and we both cried. I wiped my nose on Dunkin Donuts napkins I dug out of the glove compartment. We promised to always love each other.

So, yes, Little Brother, the Honda certainly is full of memories. 

But, my divorce has made me really good at detaching emotion from things of monetary value. Our condo quickly became an asset to unload, not my married home. My beautiful engagement ring, which I took off almost a year ago now, would help pad my savings account and fund my right hand ring, not a sign of the promises and future that were not meant to be. Our king size bed is a good quality piece of furniture, not The Bed of Constant Rejection, as I once called it, and I now love sleeping in it alone. Inanimate objects have no soul, no luck, no intentions. They are just things. When I need to, I now know I can strip objects of my feelings so I can make practical financial decisions.

As of today, I officially own the Honda. With the sunroof open, I will drive and enjoy my new purchase.

Do you have things that belonged to your ex? Do those objects make you think of your ex, or are you able to detach the memories?

My Divorce Party That Wasn't a Divorce Party

Right around the time my divorce was going to be final, I went out for drinks with Jen and Yoshi.  It was a frigid February night. I was about to put my condo on the market, so we were talking about how cool it will be when I live in Ford again. I lived alone in Ford in 2003-2005, then again with Max in 2007-2010. You know how some places you visit or live just suit you? Like you can’t quite put your finger on it but it just feels right? That’s me with Ford. The thought of moving back to Ford – without Max – was a little depressing at the time, but mostly exhilarating.

Anyway, Jen and Yoshi both live in Downtown Ford, exactly where I planned to live.

“We’ll be neighbors!” I exclaimed. “We can hang out even during a blizzard!”

Cheers to that! *clink*

Anyway, we agreed that surely I would be in Ford by springtime [oh, if I knew then what I know now!]. We got this great idea: Jen and Yoshi would throw me a Welcome Back to Ford party. At first there was talk of it being at someone’s apartment, but I said no way. We’d gather anyone who wanted to come at my favorite bar – in fact, I told my realtor that I needed to live within a five-minute walk of this bar. Yes, I’m serious.

Then, the waiting started. The condo showings were many, but the offers were few (and usually insulting). I was living in G-town, a town I never wanted to live in to start with, and now I was being held hostage by my condo in a town I didn’t care for with a roommate (AKA ex-husband) I didn’t want. Meanwhile, my social life fully transitioned back to Ford. It made me downright sad to hang out with my friends in Ford, then have to drive home to my stupid condo where my ex-husband slept in the guest room. Yeah, I got pretty grumpy about it all sometimes.

As we waited and waited, Jen kept assuring me that this party was waiting for me on the other side. Periodically Yoshi would say helpful things like, “Yo, why hasn’t your place sold yet? We need to have your party.”

After six months, when the offer was finally real and the deal was in progress, we finally set a date for my party. I was so thrilled!

Now, to be clear, this was not exactly a "divorce party." (I didn’t know divorce parties were a thing until I joined Twitter.) This party was about celebrating the next chapter of my life; it was not about bitterness or anger towards Max. I’m not happy at all that my marriage ended, but it is definitely worth celebrating that I did the right thing for me and for Max so that each of us now might be in happier, healthier relationships. So this was truly a Welcome Back party – welcoming me back to the town I loved to live the life I was supposed to be living.

On Friday, I had over a few friends for drinks and appetizers at my apartment (yes, this was on my list of 11 Reasons Why I Can't Wait to Live Alone!). My friends (including Nora and Lillian) were so excited to see my apartment.

“Kat, this place is SO perfect you!” they said. I was all, “I know, right?!” No modesty here, people. I waited way too long to finally get into my own apartment, so I’m perfectly justified to brag about what a find it is!

Somehow we polished off three bottles of wine and four beers. I didn’t bill this little gathering as pregaming, but I guess that is what we did!

Before we headed out to the bar – yes, my favorite bar – Jason came over to join us. Big step, bringing him to this gathering. Anyway, we walked to the bar, which took six whole minutes.

The evening was perfect. It was one of those September signature nights of “not too warm but not too cool” that just draws you outdoors. I pulled out my knee-high boots for the first time this season just for the occasion. There were about 15 of us – men and women – at an Irish pub doing lots of drinking and laughing. I felt so supported. Celebrated even! To varying degrees, the people there knew what a long haul it had been to get me to that night, both emotionally and financially. In particular, I had two friends drive at least 30 minutes to come – one friend is several months pregnant and how fun is a bar after 10 p.m. when you’re sober, and the other friend is a single mom with three kids, so she paid a babysitter to come out for me. They both said the same thing: this was too important to miss. I can't tell you how touched I was.

After a round of Fireball shots (whose crappy idea was that?!), about five glasses of vino, and bartenders literally turning on the lights and telling us to go home, my Welcome Back to Ford night was over. I stumbled home, knowing I had a hangover waiting for me in just a few hours but I didn’t care. I was back in the town I was supposed to be in, back to living alone in a cool apartment, and best of all, surrounded by friends.

Watch me talk about this night on Huffington Post Live with Lois Tarter of Your Divorce Day!

Have you ever attended a divorce party of some kind? What was it like? 

Why Are People Calling Me Sexy?

I’m writing my first blog post from my brand new couch in my very own apartment!

I’ve been here 12 days and it’s starting to feel like home. Unpacking has been taking forever, as it always does, and I wouldn’t even consider myself a packrat. I have spent a disgusting amount of money at Target in pursuit of the perfect organization system in my new digs.

The past week has had me pondering a new word in my vocabulary: 

SEXY

I started hearing this new word from men this year and it shocks me every time. I’m not saying I’m ugly; I think I’m a decent enough looking woman. I do exercise but you can tell that I’m far from a gym rat. I eat healthy but I’ve never met a Jersey bagel I didn’t like and yes, I would like more wine, thank you. I wear makeup and am girly, but I have definitely been in seen in public in sweats and my brother’s college baseball cap. Bottom line is that I do have confidence in myself as a person, which I think is at the core of being sexy. But, I’ve been all but sexually comatose since 2006 up until very recently. I really stunted my sexual growth, which has really hurt my confidence in myself as a sexual being. So hearing such a startling compliment this year has been deliciously surprising, confusing, but also flattering.

After years of being unscrewable (if you were to believe my husband), there’s a whole new vibe in the air around me. But how? and why?!

Hearing Sexy and Trying to Understand It

Back in January when I was dating Todd, he told me I was sexy several times. He did it in such a classy way, as if he were stating an obvious and undeniable fact.

My reaction: OK, he’s a 36-year-old man, he’s got the confidence to use such a bold adjective.

Then I was hooking up with the 26 Year Old off and on since February. (By the way, I hadn’t heard from him since July then he texted me last weekend to say hello! OK…) We were definitely not dating, just using each other. He told me I was sexy all the time – over text, while naked, while dressed, you name it. Or, as a 26-year-old would text it, “Sexxxaaaaaay.”

My reaction: OK, he’s younger, he is turned on by being with a slightly older woman. I’m probably more confident than say, a 24-year-old. And he’s totally a boob man and I got boobs.

Then I started playing with dating through OKCupid.

David, who I went out with a few times and smooched a little, loved to tell me what a great body I had and that I was sexy (though not with the confidence that Todd had). I was like, "yeah um OK" and proceeded to turn bright red. Once I started dating Jason, I told David thanks but no thanks to dating. Well, last Sunday afternoon, David texted me; it had been two weeks since I told him I wasn’t interested in him. He asked if I'd moved and how I was doing. Harmless, right?

Check out this convo, and yes, please laugh at how dense I am:

My reaction: OK, he must want to meet for coffee because that is a casual encounter. How brave of him to ask!

I read this to several people, including my 65-year-old mother, who all knew exactly what David meant. In fact Mom was howling with laughter at my saying I was "truly flattered" by this pathetically awkward attempt to bed me. 

David and I only kissed a few times and he didn’t know why I got divorced. Why on earth did he think I’d want a “casual encounter” with him?! Aside from showing how dumb I can be about a guy’s sexual advances, this weird convo furthers this idea of some vibe I’m putting out there, that I've got some sex appeal. Interesting.

Then there’s Jason. Ahhh, Jason. He’s so sweet, he thinks I’m wonderful, and as he puts it, “Kat, you’re so sexy I can’t stand it! Like it makes me mad!” Now, Jason saying I’m sexy does make sense because we do in fact have absolutely amazing sex. I’ve been getting truly reawakened and learning about myself as a sexual being with him. So, yes, he would, could, and SHOULD think I’m sexy.

One last example actually prompted this entry. Yesterday morning after my 10 mile run, my face was tomato red, my hair was frizzing everywhere, and my black shirt was covered in wipes of snot and salt. I was walking back to my apartment while tweeting about my hickie [WTF, thanks Jason!], some dude walking by me goes, “Sexy!” I look up all confused and say, “huh?” He says, “THAT sexy! Damn, you married?” I replied, “Thank you, and yes.”

My reaction: Wow, no one, and I mean no one, told me I was sexy the entire time I was with Max. 

Now, just in the months since I filed for divorce and then ended my marriage, I’ve gotten this compliment more times than I had in my entire life.

I'm Sexy and I'm (trying to) Know it

So why am I sharing this recent barrage of "sexy" comments with you? Because this is an important step in my post-Max dating and sex life. After overcoming terrible self-image in my late teens to mid 20s, I came to accept my appearance. For example, I will never have toned arms, but I like my small waist and strong legs. What I completely skipped over was believing that I’m sexy, which is a whole other level of self acceptance and self love.

Before Max, I had plenty of one-night stands. We all know how those go – super fun and hot in the moment followed by the day-after hangover of regret and ick. It doesn’t take a sexy girl to have a one-night stand. Judging from some of the dudes I slept with, pretty much anyone can have one if he or she wants to. I think those trysts were my misguided attempts to feel sexy.

While I was with Max, I usually felt pretty, but rarely – and eventually never – desired. The notion of being sexy completely eluded me.

Now, I’m truly, completely single. I haven’t seen or spoken to Max in 10 days. I’m back to being on my own, getting rid of bugs and putting stuff on high shelves. Yesterday I ran 10 miles, the longest I’ve ever run as I prepare for my first half marathon. I’m having honest, hot sex with Jason, and I’m loving being on top. I'm in a good, solid place in my life (especially considering the heartbroken wreck I was a year ago). 

So you know what? These random men are right. I AM SEXY. While I don’t entirely know why I am, I must be. The next step of my post-divorce healing is owning, accepting, and never questioning my sexiness again.

Did you have trouble regaining sexual confidence after your breakup?

Closing on the Condo, Opening a New Chapter

With just three weeks from receiving the verbal offer to signing the closing documents, I no longer own and share a home with my ex-husband. My marriage is really and truly over.

Homeownership wasn’t really something I was all that keen on from the beginning. I never particularly cared for the town we lived in. I pretty much only associated that condo with heartache and rejection. So why did I cry almost every day that I saw Max from offer to closing?

You often don’t know that something is occurring for the last time as the moment is happening, but I was acutely aware the last few weeks. My last time making pesto in the kitchen we remodeled. My last time having pizza with Max on the couch that he’s going to sell. My last time going for a run in this neighborhood. My last days sharing an address with Max. I tried to pause and really take it all in. This was a rare experience where I felt a chapter of my life closing.

Over just three weeks, we had to find a lawyer, juggle realtors, find new apartments, sign leases, get boxes, pack boxes, write checks, and answer about a million emails. You would think we would’ve been at each other’s throats from the stress and emotion, but no. In the first place, Max and I were never ones to fight (says something about the absence of passion in our relationship, no?). But I think these past few weeks, we both wanted to continue our peaceful cohabitation. We’d survived this long, why start screaming now?

But there were plenty of tears.

We divided up everything, many of which items were wedding and shower gifts. We spread out serving pieces on our dining room table and picked through our belongings like we were at garage sale. We raided our kitchen cabinets and divided appliances and bakeware, his on the left counter and mine on the right. We were so damn polite through it all, like somehow it might hurt less if we minded our manners. I felt like I was living the Sugarland song "Already Gone."

We divided the furniture, and the result is that each apartment would be properly furnished. And yes, I got the king bed.

I sorted through drawers and found cards and letters from Max back to 2005. I wanted to just throw out everything but I knew better. I carefully read through his promises to love me forever, his assurances that he would be the best partner to me that he could be, and observations that I make him a better person. I sobbed on the floor of the guest room as half the cards went in the trash and the other half got stuffed back in a drawer.

I took these down, one by one.

I finally took the wedding photos off the wall. We never took them down because we didn’t want buyers to know that we were divorced. For a year, those framed blissfully happy wedding day smiles have quietly tortured me as I came to terms with the end of my marriage. I asked Max if he wanted to go through any of our wedding photos. He said not yet, that he wasn’t ready, but won’t that be a good reason to get together another time to go through and divide them up? I said sure. I don’t think we’ll ever do it though. I wrapped framed photos in newspaper and sealed them in a box.

On the closing day, we scrambled to pack those final boxes (and why do those always take the longest?!) and do a final cleaning. At 1:30, it was time to lock the door and head to the lawyer. Max stopped to look around and take one last walk through. Sun was streaming in through the windows and reflecting off the hardwood floors. Nothing of ours was left in this echoing 990 square feet of space, but I felt the stinging presence of three and a half years of longing, disappointment, and acquiescence. I told Max I couldn’t be there and I had to go. In the hallway, he silently grabbed my hand and walked me to my car.

I started driving to the lawyer’s office and then the tears really came. By the time I got to the lawyer’s office, I was sobbing. Here was my moment to finally get rid of this damn condo and Max had to find me a restroom to pull myself together. I finally walked in to the lawyer’s office, my green irises creepily bright thanks to how red my eyes were from crying. I signed my married name over and over, and before we knew it, everything was done.

We went to lunch at a restaurant we used to frequent when we first started dating. We got spinach artichoke dip, just like we used to before I discovered Weight Watchers. After lunch, we took a short walk and reflected on the towns we’d lived in over our eight years together.

And then it was time to say goodbye.

The worst kind of goodbye is when you don’t know if or when you’ll see the person again. It was the kind of goodbye you never think you’d say to the person you married. We embraced in the parking lot. I told him that I loved him. He said he would always love me and would be there anytime I need him, even if it was just to get something off a high shelf. There wasn’t much else to say, so I told him to drive carefully.

And now, I’m officially in my new one bedroom apartment in the town I’ve wanted to be in for years. My apartment is a complete mess of boxes but it’s MINE. My friends have a welcome back party planned for me in two weeks. Everything is falling in to place. It hurt to have finally said goodbye to Max, but I’m so very happy to be really and truly on my own and in my own space.

The new view out my bedroom window.

(And in case you’re wondering, Jason and I are still seeing each other. He’s coming over for dinner tonight.)

What were your final days living with your ex like?

Related reading: How to Hire a Real Estate Agent in Divorce.