She romanticized being a divorcee: a former love-believer turned cynic, rebel of familial norms, brandishing her scarlet letter with vigor. She considered the intimidation factor, the things people might say--that woman knows when to put her foot down. Social scars look sexier up close, those unpredictable, chaos-ensuing pariahs of stability.
She was convinced that if she did, in fact, get a divorce she'd be unstoppable, the excrements of her former life fuel for the future. As the red-bellied black sheds its skin, so would she, capitalizing on a newfound identity; the comparison exciting, if not threatening. She would become what she was terrified of, a slithering predator of the night (or evening, as she rarely could keep her eyes open past 10). A woman who leaps from the bed of promise into the disarray of single adulthood, middle-aged Hinge.
She'd be calloused and irresponsible, an emblem of indecision wearing her disappointment proudly, the prophet of independence. She'd be a hero of her generation, imposing herself upon an unwelcome patriarchy like a warrior, she could do anything now, lead a small, feminist army, fuck strangers, eat gluten again.
Then again, there was always takeout to share, back rubs, and season 4 of Superstore. It's awkward to laugh alone. There was the tax write-offs, the immediate second-opinion, and someone to help zip up a dress. She knew to her bones' core that a revolution was upon us and that she would be the victorious leader... but perhaps not today. Or tomorrow. Winter was so cold, better to revolt in the spring--maybe summer.
