from leaving. I ran outside and told him not to follow me, that I would get my own cab but maybe he could watch from the window in case there was a murderer or a sidewalk rat. I got in a cab. I felt strangely independent and wild and sort of like I’d reverted to being twenty-four again. I wanted to call Allison to tell her about my night and I actually rummaged through my purse for a moment before I realized, Oh yeah. I don’t have a phone. It’s somewhere in Queens with a guy who really needs to clean out his voice mail.
A day later, I was on yet another mood-lit Virgin America flight, knowing that this time I was flying home to leave my husband. When I got home, I wanted to tell Matt everything about Kevin and how I’d come to my realization, but I just couldn’t. Instead I sat on our bed and told him that I didn’t think things were working out and I had this strange feeling that we shouldn’t be married anymore. I said that maybe we should go to a marriage therapist to see what she thinks. Matt looked at me with such huge relief and said, “I’ve been feeling the same way. Things suck. Thank you for saying this. I might never have said anything, I guess because I’m from Boston and I’m Irish.” I assured Matt that his hometown and heritage had nothing to do with it. He would never have said anything because he’s a nice person, a caretaker, and someone who doesn’t like to make other people sad. I felt such appreciation for who he was at his core as I crawled under the covers. I smiled at how we were going to be so nice to each other as we embarked on our new journey: to sue each other for alimony.
8
“C” IS FOR COOKIE, “D” IS FOR DIVORCE
When two people decide to get a divorce, it isn’t a sign that they “don’t understand” one another, but a sign that they have, at last, begun to.
—HELEN ROWLAND
A fter listening and nodding and drinking her coffee throughout our first session, our marriage counselor said, “Well, Matt and Jen, I think there’s a lot of work to do and you two need at least a year here with me.” The woman was so goddamn emaciated I didn’t even think she had a year left with that body. I couldn’t imagine what more Matt and I could have worked on. The only thing left we hadn’t worked on was a papier-mâché project together. But that wasn’t going to save a marriage. Although I’m sure there’s some hippie art therapist out there who would disagree with me.
There was something so irretrievably gone between us that, from a lot of our private talks, we figured out had maybe never really been there to begin with. Neither of us being great with confrontation, we fibbed to our new therapist and said, “Sure. We’ll call you about an appointment next week.” Matt and I left her office in silence and as we waited in the hallway for the elevator, my stomach lurched. I headed for the trash bin, leaned over, submerged my head in the hole, and puked my guts out. The proof was in the pudding. Or more like the truth was in the garbage can. I couldn’t stomach any more marriage.
Matt and I shared a look and he laughed and said, “Well, I guess that’s how you feel.”
“You can’t do another year. Can you, Matt?”
“No. You must be hungry now that you’ve emptied out. You want to have lunch?”
And so even though I’d just thrown up and we were breaking up, Matt and I went to an atmospheric Italian restaurant and sat at a sidewalk table on Canon Drive in Beverly Hills. We had two glasses of wine, lots of spaghetti, and two rounds of the bread basket. We laughed a lot. We talked about all of the times that we probably should have broken up. Right before we moved in together. Right after we moved in together. Right before we got engaged. Right before we got married. We even gently ribbed each other about how our life post-marriage would be. I fantasized that we would be like Courteney Cox and David Arquette—best friends. Matt felt like when you’re done,
A day later, I was on yet another mood-lit Virgin America flight, knowing that this time I was flying home to leave my husband. When I got home, I wanted to tell Matt everything about Kevin and how I’d come to my realization, but I just couldn’t. Instead I sat on our bed and told him that I didn’t think things were working out and I had this strange feeling that we shouldn’t be married anymore. I said that maybe we should go to a marriage therapist to see what she thinks. Matt looked at me with such huge relief and said, “I’ve been feeling the same way. Things suck. Thank you for saying this. I might never have said anything, I guess because I’m from Boston and I’m Irish.” I assured Matt that his hometown and heritage had nothing to do with it. He would never have said anything because he’s a nice person, a caretaker, and someone who doesn’t like to make other people sad. I felt such appreciation for who he was at his core as I crawled under the covers. I smiled at how we were going to be so nice to each other as we embarked on our new journey: to sue each other for alimony.
8
“C” IS FOR COOKIE, “D” IS FOR DIVORCE
When two people decide to get a divorce, it isn’t a sign that they “don’t understand” one another, but a sign that they have, at last, begun to.
—HELEN ROWLAND
A fter listening and nodding and drinking her coffee throughout our first session, our marriage counselor said, “Well, Matt and Jen, I think there’s a lot of work to do and you two need at least a year here with me.” The woman was so goddamn emaciated I didn’t even think she had a year left with that body. I couldn’t imagine what more Matt and I could have worked on. The only thing left we hadn’t worked on was a papier-mâché project together. But that wasn’t going to save a marriage. Although I’m sure there’s some hippie art therapist out there who would disagree with me.
There was something so irretrievably gone between us that, from a lot of our private talks, we figured out had maybe never really been there to begin with. Neither of us being great with confrontation, we fibbed to our new therapist and said, “Sure. We’ll call you about an appointment next week.” Matt and I left her office in silence and as we waited in the hallway for the elevator, my stomach lurched. I headed for the trash bin, leaned over, submerged my head in the hole, and puked my guts out. The proof was in the pudding. Or more like the truth was in the garbage can. I couldn’t stomach any more marriage.
Matt and I shared a look and he laughed and said, “Well, I guess that’s how you feel.”
“You can’t do another year. Can you, Matt?”
“No. You must be hungry now that you’ve emptied out. You want to have lunch?”
And so even though I’d just thrown up and we were breaking up, Matt and I went to an atmospheric Italian restaurant and sat at a sidewalk table on Canon Drive in Beverly Hills. We had two glasses of wine, lots of spaghetti, and two rounds of the bread basket. We laughed a lot. We talked about all of the times that we probably should have broken up. Right before we moved in together. Right after we moved in together. Right before we got engaged. Right before we got married. We even gently ribbed each other about how our life post-marriage would be. I fantasized that we would be like Courteney Cox and David Arquette—best friends. Matt felt like when you’re done,
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