There’s nothing like some really, really bad music from the 80’s to commemorate the passing of me from my 30’s into my 40’s.  So here it is:  The Final Countdown . . . I’m still 39 for the next 4 hours.

Now that we’ve dispensed with the horrid cheesy video, we can move on to the other stuff.

The other stuff will come tomorrow. 

I was pretty busy before the Disney trip, and was unwilling to pay $10/day for internet access while there (note to Disney:  your customer service is excellent, but your nickel and diming made me feel like I had a wedgie the entire weekend).  This explains my absence from blogland. 

Disney was amazing.  It was emotional as well.  I felt myself letting go, easing into my new life as a divorced woman with children, on vacation sans man.  Windsor was the best surrogate husband and daddy a girl could EVAH ask for - patient, kind, thoughtful, and able to handle all of the details and roadbumps a vacation like that can mess with the best-laid plans.  Before we left, she secretly had the girls make me congratulatory posters since they weren’t able to be at the finish line.  More about that later, but it made me so thankful to have such amazing kids and such amazing friends.

I was texting with Dan while in Florida and I told him that I felt like this trip was a turning point.  He agreed with me.  I could literally feel the edge of the corner as I turned it.  I talked with the girls and told them this was our big ol’ gift for making it through the past year and half - and from now on, it was sunny days, ice cream, and the occasional turnip.  I probably didn’t say that, but they knew what I meant. 

The trip put me in the kind of debt it will take a few months to pay off, but it was worth every penny.  From the Disney Princess breakfast where I managed to annoy Snow White and yuk it up with Ariel (she’s wild, that one!) to the Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique hair extension extravaganza, it truly was a magical experience for the girls.  Watching them experience it did all of the cliched things the commercials say it will - reliving my own memories of breaking my dad’s arm when he got me onto Space Mountain at a young age, forcing my mother into endless eternal loops through the creepy singing dolls in the “it’s a small world” ride, the stretching chamber in the Haunted Mansion, and the absolute overwhelming hugeness of fun and experiences.  Lily sort of got over her fear of roller coasters and Arden tried everything she could get her hands on.  She even went back through the Haunted Mansion with me, after getting stuck on it with Windsor and Lily - right near a headless ghost. 

I didn’t get to spend as much time with my traveling companions as I had hoped, but I did not understand how difficult it would be getting from park to park.  That is a whole other blog post about why you shouldn’t waste your money on park hopper tickets.  We had to be flexible with our schedule once we realized our plan wasn’t going to work.  I did get one adult’s night out with Cameron, Sarah and Tim at an expensive Italian restaurant the night before the race.  The highlight was being hit on mercilessly by our Columbian waiter Oscar, who kissed me twice and probably would have followed me back to my less-than-luxurious hotel had I given any indication I was interested. 

A couple of things I didn’t really think through:  running a half marathon after 2 days on my feet standing in long lines probably wasn’t the best way to run a good race.  However, was running a “good” race really the important thing?  Theresa was proud that both Sarah and I stopped in front of the castle for pictures - but it was hard to do.  The Pirates of the Carribean were out - and shirtless, I might add - along with Cinderella, Tiana, Belle . . .and of course Mickey and Goofy and Daffy and a host of others waving at 16,000 women was truly amazing.  I wanted to throw caution to the wind and just take a bunch of pictures and be silly, not worry about my time - but I did anyway.  I’m not competitive by nature, but I am very competitive with myself.  My first foot out of the starting line (complete with fireworks! and a Fairy Godmother!) made me realize I wasn’t going to have an easy time of it.  I was already exhausted, having gotten up at 3.20 AM to make the bus at 4 AM and the starting line at 5 AM.  Lots of irregular eating and no sleep made for my first ever mid-race porta-potty stop.  And let me just say:  there is nothing quick about a bathroom break when wearing a tutu, crown, fuel belt and spibelt. 

(brief stop - even though I look like I’m ready to die, you can see how happy I am, and how Sarah looks like she’s barely sweaty)

Sarah had a great race and PR’d - when I bonked in the bathroom at mile 7, she trotted on ahead.  The rest of the race was mentally grueling and physically punishing.  Despite all of that, I realized how much stronger I had gotten since the half marathon in November.  Hauling my big body around in running shoes was a bit easier, the distance more manageable, and the aches and pains only slowed me down as opposed to stopping me in my tracks.  Running through the castle, seeing all these women at different ages and levels of fitness was quite inspiration, and the choir they had near the finish line sent shivers up my spine and it wasn’t just from dehydration and exhaustion. 

Another blogger I like posted a beautiful picture of her medal - the same one I received, but about 23 minutes later . . .
 
It was heavy enough that it immediately discouraged me from trying to wear it in the park that day like the rest of the nerds . . . 

Unfortunately a miscommunication (read: I got lost and couldn’t find the rest of my group to ride back to the hotel) at the finish line made my diminished mental state more, well, mental.  Coming back to the room to find balloons and streamers and an unmade bed was just what I needed, and after an hour nap I was ready to meet up with the girls again. 

The girls handled everything amazingly well, including a flight delay that got us back home at 1 AM.  They are slowly returning to normal, and so am I.  I’m already forgetting the near-disaster my tutu had in the porta-potty and am considering signing up for the half in Disneyland over Labor Day weekend . . . once my big toenail grows back. 

In a very literal way, running saved my life today.  Each one of the 10 miles I did put me farther away from despair and closer to just plain ol’ apathy.  It is a good thing running isn’t a person, because if it was, I’d have to leave a bar tab open for it for the rest of eternity. 

Big setback today, but I was prepared for it.  Shout out to Jennifer for making me plan out my Christmas Day after the kids left to the minute - as usual, she was right.  Also, note to self:  when Jennifer suggests that something might be “difficult’ for me, pay attention and DON’T DO IT. 

Help comes in weird forms when you least expect it.  My feet hurt, and so does my left leg, but my brain is sighing with relief that I’ve almost made it through my first Christmas in this new iteration.  Let’s hope this one was the worst because I now understand why some people loathe, dread, and despise the holidays.  There is nothing more annoying than family and friends in love with each other all huggy and cheerful when you just want them to choke on their fruitcake. 

At some point I’ll blog about the last two days.  Don’t ask me about pictures because there aren’t any. I wasn’t up to it, and I really don’t want to remember this year.  In the meantime, I’m happy to say that it’s almost over, my kids had a good Christmas, and I am still here. 

When I trained for the half, I was rigid about utilizing all the advice I received and following the training schedule to the exact letter.  I didn’t miss training runs, no matter what.  On the rare occasions my personal or business life got in the way, I rearranged my schedule to work the run in so I wouldn’t fall behind. 

I feel like I’ve been training for divorce in much the same way.  In some ways, it’s paying off like my half training did - but I also feel like I did at mile 11.5, which is where I wanted to lie down in the ditch and wave a white flag. 

Divorce training has included mental exercises to steel myself for the holidays.  It includes mind calisthenics to keep me focused on the things around me:  the beautiful eyes of my very different daughters, pretty trees, the way the road feels under my feet, the hug of a good friend, a note from my dad, Thora’s snoring body pressed up against me at night.  I have a list of people on call who can deal with my moods; I also have a list of people I can call who will distract me with their antics.  I use every trick I’ve been taught and pride myself - sort of - on knowing when I need to just feel and when I need to run like hell.  It’s served me well.  Last night during a phone conversation with a friend, I cut through about 6 layers of BS to reveal the true issue.  We are good enough friends that although my thoughts on the matter probably didn’t thrill him, he knew I was looking out for him.  I’m great at figuring out other people’s issues.  Occasionally I can figure my own out as well.  In this case, I know that white knuckling is probably the only thing getting me through this.

In the midst of feeling like I’m a tasmanian devil of epic proportions (when I visualize myself, I see a tornado where my body should be and a million bits of shattered glass coming off the gray clouds), there are these other incredible moments that are just as powerful.  Today I snuck in a run while my kids played at Theresa’s (she occupied them with sugar cookie dough and will be cleaning sprinkles off her floor for the next 6 years).  The sun was out but it was windy and cold.  The first mile was spent convincing myself I’d warm up.  Once I found my rhythm, I was able to look around.  I love running in Manakin because the air smells like warm horse poo and pine trees.  It’s hilly and pretty and I can run on the roads without feeling like I’m going to be hit by a truck or texting car driver every 30 seconds.  I was able to look at all the holiday crud and be happy for those warm and cozy families all locked up behind their gift wrapped doors and overly-wreathed windows.  I saw a woman watching me struggle up a hill as she glanced out her window; it struck me that perhaps she was looking at me wishing we could trade places.  You never know what people are thinking on the other side of the window.  I mean, I’m out working my lungs, mind and body in beautiful sharp sunshine while she was marinating some piece of meat or cleaning the house for the 28 people about to descend on her.  Who got the winning end of the deal?  I DID. 

Tonight, I took Laura up on her offer of sushi.  She made me laugh loudly and inappropriately.  I love talking with Laura because we can switch between heavy intellectual stuff and ridiculous topics without missing a beat.  Watching Laura make the spicy girl roll “face of pleasure” nearly rendered me incapable of eating my own food, but somehow I managed.  It seems that whenever I feel lowest, I open my eyes and there are options.  The best part of this is that lately, the option has been that I’m able to sit with my feelings, alone, and support myself, alone. 

I white knuckled it all year.  Most of the time I made bad decisions, but either way, I survived.  I’m still here, intact, and finally at a place where I can just hang out in my head and be okay with it.  The bad moments are just that - bad moments.  I lean into them, let them roam around for a while, then put them out to pasture. 

Heartbreak, separation, divorce - there is a rhythm to the process just like there is for marriage.  Dating, committing, engagement, marriage.  Divorce is less cut and dried, more fluid, more scary.  I watch one of my friends going through the process, about 6-7 months behind me.  I look at my friend Wynne, divorced about 2 years before me, and where she is today.  I’m hopeful that one day my life will more closely resemble Wynne’s than the me of today, but either way I know I did the right thing.  And I want to tell my friend, walking in the ugly dark place from which I’ve recently emerged that the other side is a much brighter place and smells like horse poo and pine trees. 

No one could hurry my process and no pacifier or security blanket, in any shape or form, could comfort me until I was able to comfort myself.  This means I can’t be a security blanket for anyone else, and I can’t make the pain stop or throw up enough distractions to make the feelings go away.  What I’ve found, though, is a whole universe of amazing people and amazing inner strength throughout the process.  In my head I build my perfect life, whatever that means, and I don’t worry about how I’m going to achieve it.  I just let myself have the thoughts and feel comfortable knowing that this path is my own - there is no right or wrong, as my dad reminded me. 

That’s why I am not upset about the white knuckling going on right now.  It’s hard, yes, but my Christmas this year will be unlike any other.  That’s not all 100% bad either.  There were some parts of my previous life that needed to go bye bye, and some of them have to do with Christmas and New Year’s.  Instead of letting traditions define me, I’m going to define traditions this year.  If that means dinner out followed by The Black Swan with Stanley, then I’m lucky I have those options.  In the meantime, I’m getting through it and enjoying the bright spots in my days. 

My divorce was final on December 16th.  I didn’t find out til December 17th, and mercifully I was sitting in the waiting room for a therapy appointment.  I was shocked at my reaction.  I thought I’d feel something closer to peace than what actually happened.  Reading the email from my attorney was like being kicked in the guts.  I couldn’t breathe.  I called a friend who understands; after wiping the snot on my sleeve (apparently lot of people have been crying in that waiting room because there wasn’t a tissue to be found), I headed into Jennifer’s office where I eventually calmed down. 

I’ve reading this book with a terrible name but a helpful message - it’s called “Your Defiant Child”.  One of the lessons is that instead of trying to shut down an emotional outburst, you help your child find ways to express it and get it out.  There’s a lot to the theory and the best way to do it but I’ve decided that perhaps applying it to myself is a good way to learn it.  Instead of my usual knee jerk reaction (suppress the feeling, run, hide, distract), I’m trying to sit WITH the feeling. It reminds me a lot of the Bradley Method for labor and delivery where you trained your mind to relax into the pain instead of tensing and moving away from it. 

My homework this week from Jennifer is to figure out what the hell I’m going to do after my kids leave on Christmas Day.  Part of me wants to curl up in a ball; the other part wants to make some new traditions.  I have a shadow box that needs to be finished from the half marathon; I have no idea what I’m doing but I figured Christmas would be a good time to mess that project up.  I can go for a run, a very long one, which is about the healthiest way to deal with emotions for me. 

I am more concerned about New Year’s Eve and weekend, which has never been about partying for me but more about self-reflection and an honest glance back at what I did and didn’t do in the previous year(s).  I won’t have the kids or the dog, and that’s a lot of free time.  There’s the typical ways to deal:  the Resolution Run on New Year’s Eve, a hot date with the Green/Junkermann family later perhaps - but after that I just don’t know.  I’ve considered heading out to the Eastern Shore and doing what I said I would do - spending a day/night on my own, no schedule, no distractions.  It’s a monetary thing right now so it’s going to be a last minute decision. 

Lily saw me crying today.  I simply told her that even adults get sad and it’s okay.  She wanted to know if it was because I wasn’t with daddy this year - I told her that yes, I was sad about our family not being together even if it was better this way.  I hurt for my kids, but I know the worst is over. 

Philip’s divorce was final yesterday.  The day was significant in a couple of ways.  First, I was able to focus on someone else’s issues instead of my own, and channel my energy into helping.  He came here.  Those of you who come from small towns will understand that while comfort is gained from knowing everything and everyone, it can be oppressive and terrifying when going through something ugly.  Sometimes space between the place you associate with pain is the easiest way to get through the hours you expect to be miserable.  We did things I don’t normally get a chance to do, like appreciate Richmond from an outsider’s perspective.  Realizing how beautiful the James is, because I’ve spent so long wishing it was the Great Lakes instead.  Being able to point out the Jefferson as where I was married without feeling anything negative attached to the statement.  Looking at art with someone who knows more about it than I do.  Walking instead of running, and taking time to look at things I normally blow by in my quest to improve a 10 minute mile, like frozen trees or footprints.  I’m always in a hurry to get somewhere and for a day or two I just stopped being rushed.  Sharing a therapy session with someone who needed it as much as I did.  Thinking about the things I wanted for myself when my divorce was final, like affirmation that I will survive and bloom into a better, more honest version of myself. We ate at Comfort, a local restaurant serving what else - comfort foods with high price tags and strange ingredients - and although the service was typical Richmond (i.e., not very friendly or customer-focused), I felt like I was storing up some reserves to make it through the next two weeks. 

For the last 15 months, I’ve spent a lot of time writing about the separation, divorce, the kids, the ups and downs.  I’m hopeful that now I can start writing about my recovery from it, and get better about sharing the amazing bright spots I’ve had and will continue to have.  Someone told me recently that divorce defines me only if I let it.  I never felt like divorce would define me.  I think marriage defined me more than anything else.  Call it weakness or stupidity or just the inability to really be objective, but I lost a piece of myself every year I stayed married until I no longer recognized myself in the mirror.  That wasn’t Mike’s fault.  It was mine.  I stepped away from everything I loved about myself because I felt like I couldn’t be that person and still be a wife and a mother.  My sister saw it happening for years.  Friends who only knew me as married now see another side of me, and in most cases, they like it.  In the midst of despair and worry, friends have said that I am happier, more grounded, and more laid back than ever.  This is my reassurance that I am on the right path.  It is stupidly earth-shattering to me to realize that I can be a mother and a partner and maybe even a wife (someday far far away) without giving up or repressing the parts of my personality that make me unique.  I’d rather write than lead the PTA.  I don’t want to date people who will learn to deal with the fact that there is something tiny in my nose - I want to date people who don’t think anything of it.  I will gladly trade quantity for quality, in friendships and relationships. 

In the meantime, I’m learning how to be alone without being lonely.  It’s pretty cool when it works.