How Did I End up in This Outfit?
I’m currently working on something. The last time I wrote a book in my own voice, it was about love, family, and marriage. A decade later, I'm sharing how it feels to rewrite my life in midlife, after divorce. Somewhere along the way, I lost my voice. I’m sharing pieces of my journey as I write my way back. Here’s one of them.
How the fuck did I end up in this outfit?
The short answer was that he was there the night before when one more shot of tequila started tasting like the answer to something.
Last night’s black leather dress was never intended to see daylight, so I slung it over my shoulder as I walked to my car in what he had given me to wear to sleep: A gray college t-shirt with bright orange Under Armour shorts. I could have blended in with the early morning errand-runners had it not been for my red stilettos screeching an unplanned sleepover siren against the sidewalk. Good Morning, Everyone! Welcome to my ho stroll! Their sound under the Sunday morning calm made me suddenly aware that walks of shame and their accompanying wardrobe didn’t come in age 45.
These steps were made for younger feet.
But how the fuck did I end up in this outfit? I had married out of this stroll with a walk down the aisle almost 20 years ago. Where was the path from that aisle, to mother of three, to mommy marriage blogger, to marriage educator and author, to this street on this day, walking alone because the man from last night couldn’t be bothered to walk the distance beside me from his door to my car? I pored over maps and had yet to find the road.
“Good morning,” two construction workers smiled while leaning in a doorway, their eyes roving my body and stopping at my shoes, mouths pursed in smiles holding pieces of candy knowledge of the night before between their lips.
“Good Morning!” I responded with a cheery wave, realizing that at 45, I felt no shame in walking. Strangers could do whatever they wanted with their eyes. I no longer cared.
I made it to my car, opened the door, and slid into my driver’s seat before plugging my address into my GPS, trying to find my way back home.