If you’ve ever daydreamed about what it would be like to be a newly divorced 42 year-old woman, it can potentially feel awful, awkward, and like you’re slightly losing your mind, akin to the madwoman in the attic, à la Mr. Rochester’s wife in Jane Eyre. She’s fucking lost it, but to quote something I recently read online, “I’m sorry I acted crazy while you were treating me like shit.” You can have that one, Bertha Mason. I see you, girl.

Within the span of nearly a year, my then husband of nearly two decades moved out, most unceremoniously; my most, good lord, my most, beloved cat of 17 years died; my refrigerator died; my dishwasher died; I sold my car; I packed up my home, sold my home, moved out, moved in; and divorced. My therapist went on maternity leave.

The internet tells me that I should have a goal, a dream, a revival. That this should be my hot girl summer; party until my liver begs for mercy, explore the yet unknown nuances of my personality, fit into those size two jeans (my ass would NEVER) due to the copious amounts of iced Matcha (#basichotgirlsummer #icedmatchaforever) and hot yoga (it’s called doing laundry with no air conditioning during Chicago summer). Along with my excess adipose tissue, sweat out all of the anger and regret.

What the interwebs fails to reveal is that a completely 180 degree change in a short time does not leave one in the most productive state of mind. Come to think of it, or really, to not think of it, the contents of my mind felt dulled, like a chalkboard whose writing lingered too long and when erased, blurry smudges remained. A world of thoughts, now gone but still somewhat there and illegible. Reading was difficult, concentration was difficult, movement was difficult. Whatever sharpness was there had been buffed out by the rock tumbler of life, leaving me dull and round.

I tested myself, my fortitude, and went on a solo vacation to another state. I romanticized my trip – lounging at the pool, journaling every day, a love affair with catharsis. I’d come home a changed woman, ready to cut carbs, ready to finally embrace that hot girl summer with flourish.

I was annoyed by the children at the pool who kept splashing my paperback novel. I felt sorry for myself, seeing all of the couples, scantily clad, embracing in the water. I ate too much and felt sick. I drank too much and felt guilty. I missed my cat. I spent too much money. I posted happy photos on Instagram to prove I was having a great time. Sometimes I was.

When I arrived home, I again ate too much and slept too much and was happy to see my cat. It took a week to unpack. 42, single, divorced, with fat, senior cat. I still can’t manage to keep my apartment clean for more than two days. I now wear progressives, and still needed to make the screen 110% while writing this (just kidding, 120%).

When I returned, I soon discovered that the ants had made a home of my kitchen floor, and as my blood pressure skyrocketed, I paused. I took a breath, and reminded myself that ants are gonna ant. I called my building’s handyperson, and he sprayed. It was over.

I have been left dull and round. The extreme edges that I’ve always lived with are gone, or are at least smoothing out. Ants will come and go, my home will have piles of laundry, and sometimes I will put them away. I drink less alcohol (and sometimes I drink more alcohol) and many times, get ready for bed when the sun is still up, flossing an hour before. I take CBD gummies with melatonin most nights. When I gain weight, I buy a bigger pant size. I try to remember that it’s a “them” problem, not a me problem, and let it go. Sometimes not.

I have a year until next summer beings, a year to prepare for the possibility of a “hot girl summer.” Though as time goes on, I think I may opt for a chubby, warm woman winter.

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