em>I Think A Change Will Do You Good

While I’ve never been interested in New Year’s resolutions, January has always been a month for reflection: this year vs. last year.

The last few New Year’s eves, L and I have clucked at drunken herds spilling in and out of cabs in high heels. I don’t miss that, I’d say. Or: Glad we won’t ever be doing that again. We’d be driving our own car, with takeout container leftovers from a nice dinner, heading home just before or after midnight.

This year, I spilled in and out of a cab, dressed in high heels. I left my coat home because it ruined the outfit and I entered a guy’s number into my phonebook then promptly forgot his name. I danced. I came home and quarantined my shiny shirt because it smelled like a late night.

Last year’s trip to Barcelona was a week before my bridal shower. My mom told me to pick out something special and buy it. A shower gift. I searched and found the perfect thing: a painting that reminded me of love. It’s grafitti. Pinks and reds and edgy lines. I knew the minute I saw it.

I called L, bubbling. “If you go to google I can show you a picture of where I’m standing right now. It’s amazing. How do you say fishing village in Spanish? That’s gorgeous. Say it again.”

This time next week, I’ll be back in Barcelona. I’ll remember how much I loved it last time and fight not to feel sad or nostalgic about where I was, mentally, as I took it in, wishing he were there to see it with me, making plans that next time, we’d come together. I’ll go back to the same store and buy another painting. I want to hang it next to the other one. This time, I’ll be looking for something that grabs me with the same immediacy. I’ll be searching for something that looks like change.

And When She Leaves Your Ass She Gonna Leave With Half

This time last year, I signed my name on a bunch of lines, sealing a contract for a real estate agent; L squeezed my knee and said we were starting another chapter, this time we’ll own a home with both of our names on it. We made appointments to look at condos for sale, walked through with agents. He’d hold my hand and explain that we were newlyweds, looking for a home with two bedrooms. I’d jump in and explain that we needed an office, not a nursery.

12 months later I’m signing my name on a bunch more lines, sealing a contract for a divorce petition. I’m squeezing my own hand to reassure myself that I’m doing the right thing, it’s time for this finality. I’m making appointments with the attorney, who explains the process and asks questions about the length of marriage, our bank accounts, whether we have children, other joint property. I jump in to explain that we talked about this, he and I, what marriage meant. I didn’t think I’d ever be sitting in front of someone and asking for explanations about what I’m entitled to, how divorce works.

The papers were handed to him on Friday. There were some delivery options: by mail. Hand them over myself. Have them served by a marshal of the court. When she offered that one, a light went on. That’s what I did. It, and his reaction, are the subject for another entry, when I’ve got more energy.

Happy New Year.