It was 2008 and I had just ended my first divorce. Whenever I say “first divorce” I am always overcome with this flurry of emotions I don’t always understand. Because, ultimately. would I have been a better human being to persist in a marriage that was making me miserable? Societal norms and contemporary archaic opinions shout the default “Yes! Women should stay in all marriages, and feel lucky to be married!”
[Insert gargantuan eye roll]
I feel bad to be a woman who got shit wrong; twice. To be honest, the marriages were not the only thing I got wrong. I am a book that is full of misadventures and lapses in judgment, overwhelming outer empathy to the point of self-injury, without a shred of self-empathy.
If you aren’t making mistakes in life, are you really living?
I was entitled to more than I took. Far more. My former had a great salary and career with IBM Canada. He also had more RRSPs than I had. I left with nothing but my dog, and the new bed we never used together and frame.
My heart smiled knowing I was right. That house in Ajax was a great fucking investment. He lives there still, with his lovely wife. A teacher and book reader, crafter, and wonderful mother. The man who wanted no kids for fear of being a bad Father became the loving Dad to a boy named Zach. Sometimes I look with a heart of pure love, and grateful that his next chapter was the best one.
I was supposed to divorce Paul so that he could find the life that made him happiest. Okay, sometimes the pictures are hard to look at because… MY HOUSE looks like an episode from Hoarders.
Now I am wondering if he was a frustrated hoarder living with a neat freak?!?! That makes sense, the divorce, if true in retrospect.
Okay, I know that sounds mean, but Jesus Christ if you have to carve a path through the living room and dining room and tread softly so that the 900-foot wall of Rubbermaid containers (some with lids and many without) does not crash down on you, and smother you to death.
Not my house. Not my life. But it made me angry just a little. I think just the mess though… I’m sorry. It’s just so much… never mind.
Hello Apartment In Downtown Toronto
I received a few financial surprises in the divorce, particularly, the credit card debt I did not know existed. But our combined salaries had provided a very comfortable life, with cats and little dogs and all the Dungeon’s and Dragon’s books (and figurines) you could imagine.
Now, it was just my paycheck. And that sucked.
I did not have a good income at the time, despite the fact that I loved working for the Ontario College of Pharmacists. I loved that place and all we did for patient safety. But for all the vacation accrual (which was awesome) my take-home pay was very little.
My life at $39k gross was going to be one hell of an adjustment. For over ten years, I had been used to splitting things. Now my budget didn’t allow for a car and insurance payments. So, the first brand-new car I ever bought and paid off went to my former. I’m a really nice person to divorce, I think…
The Expansive Bachelorette Pad: Yonge and Eligible
No, I didn’t just make a spelling mistake. Yonge and Eglinton is a neighborhood in mid-town Toronto. Very serious, very single young people flock to the intersection where the subway meets an old-school main street that has everything you can possibly buy, eat, or rent.
It was Toronto. Not Paris. Thank you, Google for the image, but I have never been to Rue Etienne Marcel, in Paris. I have never been to Paris. I would like to go to Paris and need to get working on that. I would buy a red lock to place. La Candenas d’Amour.
The apartments there were small, expensive, and very noisy. I like quiet, and my salary was very shitty, so I opted for a few blocks down at Yonge and Davisville. There was a subway stop there too, and one great pub, one of those overpriced small walk-in hipster grocery marts, and a decent-sized dog park.
My rent was $1175 per month. That was a steal at the time, for 390 square feet without a roommate. I find roommates difficult if they are messy. And they usually are messy, or the kind that call you up at 3 am because they spent their money and ditched their date, and cannot afford a taxi.
Diego, my black and white tubby chihuahua (ish) pup, and I moved into the fourth floor of what would be my home for about two years. Where I would learn how strong my drive was, to be independent, and successful. The place I truly found my authentic self, again. And learned the realities of an impossibly tight budget.
Fancy Decorations and Things
Moving from an 1800 square foot house to a 390 square foot coffin (in the disguise of a war cry for feminine independence) was an adjustment. Ikea was my savior; dishes, lamps, towels, cutlery, pots and pans, side tables, and the TV bench thing that I fashioned into a low-rider gamer girl desk set up.
With an Ikea low-back leather scoop chair, and an ottoman I used for my mouse. Pew! Pew! It was cool. And particularly comfortable for the long hours I was about to spend in Second Life.
Walking around on some avatar named Skylar Smythe, of course. Some outspoken, gregarious, hilarious (laughs loudest at own jokes), sensual voiced, creative extroverted explosion of a chubby avatar with a very unsexy short French haircut with her bangs falling to cover her dark, brown eyes.
I looked so young back then. And trusting. Below is the picture I used for online dating profiles. Militant possibly gay, with stubby fingers, and over-plucked eyebrows. Definite nerd. Cool glasses though. Gucci.
Life on a Shoestring Budget
I felt very sad, for the record. The divorce broke my heart. To that point, I had only believed divorces happened between two people, where one was an abhorrent monster, and the other a kindly, and loving soul.
It never occurred to me that divorces can happen between two kindly, and loving souls. Perhaps that kind of divorce is much harder; to leave them when you truly love them. All the while knowing it took years of asking myself the same questions before I came up with the best chance for both of us. And executed it like I didn’t care about him at all. Because one of us had to do the right thing and be “the bad guy”.
[Bows]
Balancing a budget is much easier when you have a lot of money. Seriously, that revelation came quickly to me. I’ve worked since I was 14 years old. Well, 13.4 years old, and told them that my social card was “in the mail”. Homelife was very scary. I felt I needed an income and a potential escape plan.
Things I Got Rid Of
- Car
- Car Insurance
- Gasoline expense
- Cable TV (there is a significant gap in my viewership of certain series and HBO).
- Having a full fridge
Things I Prioritized
- Subway tokens
- Coupons
- Credit card overpayments.
- Dog food
- Dog treats
- Veterinary bills
- Diet Pepsi
- Tortilla chips with jalapenos and queso.
- Condoms (two of the boxes expired and I broke at least four on target practice with bananas)
At the College, there were days when two or three meetings were underway. Heads of Pharmacy, often legislative meetings, and sometimes, regulate pharmacists to make sure they continue to practice safely. Noble mission. I truly loved that job, because I knew we were making a difference.
Each meeting had catering. And ample leftovers, which were brought to the staff room in the basement, where it was a glorious spread. Almost every day I could count on a piece of chicken, steak or pork, some steamed veggies, a great salad, and sometimes, a fancy rich person dessert. Quinoa, quite often.
That was my good meal, on the days it was available. Sometimes, after I knew everyone was all done and the “last call for leftovers” email had been received, I would run downstairs with a container, and pack up some salad and veggies from the crudites. Lunch and dinner served!
I learned to check expiration dates on canned foods from the dollar stores. I scoured the grocery store flyers to find where chicken thighs were on sale. Chicken breasts weren’t in the budget anymore. I found the Asian stores had better quality rice (and it was cheaper there). Diane got me addicted to frozen dim sum soup things, like shrimp balls. Like meatballs, but shrimp, and other things that made my fetish for Asian soups more exciting.
My best friend would ask about once a month if I wanted to go to Costco with her. Back then, it was a great bargain for meat (much better than the shops in midtown, anyhow). We would ride the train to Scarborough, get in her car, talk, shop at Costco and she would drive me back home. See what a big beautiful heart she has? 🙂 I miss her so much.
I learned how to clean, cut, and freeze vegetables before they went bad. I kept my chicken bones for soup and made my own broth. I happily ate soups a lot, or a smoothie, when fruit prices were relatively reasonable. I learned how to check the “almost expired” rack in the fruit section and saved a ton of money by cleaning, cutting, and freezing fruit.
I learned if I made homemade tomato sauce for the single exchange student next door, once a week, he would take my garbage to the chute (also once per week). He even returned the large mason jars. 🙂
Those Are Fighting Words
One time I invited someone over, who I was maybe interested in (although I don’t think I was actually interested) to my apartment. He opened the fridge door, and what he said has stuck with me.
“All you got is God, dog food, and Diet Pepsi?”
I don’t know why it is still rattling around my brain. Insignificant moment it may seem, but I think I absorbed it as a dare. “Is this all you can do, Lori?” My ego roared back to life (I knew it was gone but had no clue where the fuck it went).
I marched into my kitchen, opened a cupboard, and pulled out a bottle of Silent Sam vodka, and a bag of tortilla chips. Turning to face him, I felt like a superhero, holding a weapon of mass destruction in each hand, screaming internally and inaudibly…
DEMON BE GONE!
What I actually said was: “I have groceries, asshole. The date’s over. Get out.”
Him: “Fuck, Lori, it’s like, 9:00?”
Me: “I have someone arriving at 9:15”
I know. I knowwwwwwwwwwww!
Can we have just a little bit of appreciation for that epic conversation though? If I tell you he wasn’t really a nice guy (found out later) would that be a little more forgivable? Being that savage? What a bad person I am to recoil, and then hit him in the head with an emotional ninja star. Right. Through. His. Heart.
He was studying to be a lawyer. What a complete asshole I believed I was, at the time.
Yeah, the #TorontoSingles chatroom was ablaze about some guy who had attacked a girl the night after I landed that zinger. When they showed his picture in the segment, I started laughing so hard.
Not that he had victimized someone.
Not that he had been caught.
Not that the woman was not telling the truth. I actually knew her.
I laughed because I had spent a week thinking I was the worst person in the world. Because of how easily those barbed words came hurling out of my mouth. I laughed because I thought he was a great person, and my instincts were of no intrinsic value. That my instincts had perhaps saved me, while they evaded my rational thoughts at the time.
It’s not safe to be a nice girl, anymore.
The vodka and orange burned in my nasal cavity after the laughing stopped. I remember checking the chain over the front door, grabbing Diego, and sitting on the balcony that had no pigeon shit because I spent $250 with those professional concrete net thingers.
After a deep conversation with my dog, we stepped twelve inches into the threshold of my living room closed the door and locked it, lowered the blind, and then pulled the large beige canvas floor-to-ceiling curtains, tied so they rested about seven inches above the floor, because Diego liked to pee on things. But only when he was really angry.
Sometimes the generations after the best generation (GenX) lament that life is so much harder today. That their elders (which I guess are…us now? Jeeze…) never knew what low income and high living expenses ever felt like. That we never experienced “the struggle is real” because our Baby Boomer parents gave into every request, and emotional and financial need we expressed, to make our lives easier.
Do you know any Boomers? PLEASE.
Yes, I know what financial struggle feels like. I’ve experienced it a few times over my fifty circles around the sun. I grew up with people who had everything (and were miserable) and people who had nothing, but a strong, loving, and supportive family. Whose house I never wanted to leave.
GenX was never coddled. We barely survived, but it taught us a few things about getting back up anytime life deals you a knockout punch. You have to love yourself so much, that you are willing to do whatever it takes to get back on your feet. Whether that is disguised as arrogance, pride, or even apathy at times, the desire to win is there.
I’ve met some Millennials who have this too. This GenX persona. But they are like, 1-2 years younger than the youngest threshold of my people. So, they are GenX-ish by proxy. Not quite a Millennial, but arguably more tolerable, and perhaps less entitled.
You Look Like One of Those People With a Blessed Life
So what do you say, when you look like someone who has never had her ass utterly kicked by life, to a point of zero recognition or comeback probability? More than once?
I said: “I’ve eaten a lot of Ramen in my day.”
The young one asked: “What is the worst job you have ever had?”
I said: “Robotic welding of Honda Accord rear beams and trailing arms parts. I looked like a porcupine of metal slivers on my face and neck, and one time, my long beautiful thick black curly hair caught on fire. They don’t tell you that you can’t wear hairspray under your factory-issued construction hat. That sucked.”
[Cue Silence]
Bad Things Make You Appreciate Good Things More
Or bad things can make you think bad things are the only things that are going to happen to you. This emotion is a coin toss when you are recovering from something that took everything not to succumb to.
How could I ever appreciate a truly blessed life, if I knew no differently? If I had never experienced abandonment, fear, intimidation, manipulation, guilt, insecurity, and all the myriad emotions that vomit out of us when something bad happens, and we no longer feel safe.
And then when we do feel safe, we almost cannot trust it. We start looking for red flags incessantly because, at some point, we learn that our instincts cannot always be trusted. But then, this new wave of self-realization comes creeping in.
Man, you have survived a lot of shit. And look at you. You’re busting ass, making great progress, and happier than you’ve been in a long time. Promenading with someone who has a higher-than-average probability of kicking your ass in Scrabble.
Damn it. That was another red flag I missed in husband #2.
Husband #1 would have kicked ALL our asses.
