Read Online Tales of a Female Nomad by Rita Golden Gelman - Free Book Online Page A

eleven-foot) office that I’ve been renting in Venice, California, for a number of years. I join a gym so I can shower. And I eat every meal out, in restaurants and fast-food places, constantly aware that I am alone in the place where I live, which is even harder than being alone in a place where you don’t know anyone. There is no “travelers’ network” for me in Los Angeles.
    The kids are not around either. Mitch is in Singapore, studying for a year on a Rotary International Fellowship. And Jan is finishing up school at the University of Colorado in Boulder. We talk often and write at least once a week, but basically we are all going through this divorce separately.
    Most of the time I am not interested in talking to people or going out. Or even joining friends—the ones who are left. Most of my nine-year social life in Los Angeles was with couples that we knew through my husband’s work. When I return from Mexico, I never hear from any of them again.
    Divorcing also marks the end of the “glamorous” events in my life. I am no longer connected to the world I was in. The strings have been cut and I’m floating, looking on from outside as an observer instead of a participant.
    As an observer, I am particularly interested in watching women, married, divorced, single. So many of them are trapped in lives they think they must live, in roles they have come to resent, with little joy and no laughter. They’ve “settled.” They’ve compromised. They’ve learned to adjust.
    Among the divorced, many are bitter, coloring their lives with resentment; others live only to meet the man who will complete them.
    I have no intention of adjusting, and I am not looking to define myself by the man I am with. The new me is feeling rebellious, looking for excitement, bursting with energy to explore. There is no way that I am going to sit around feeling sorry for myself, thinking that the only way I can enjoy life is with a man.
    With no possessions, no home, and no precedent, I am free to design a life that fits me. Best of all, I have tasted the life I want. My Mexican adventure opened me up. I want more. During my four months away, I met interesting people, I was never bored, and I laughed more than I had in years. I resolve to continue exploring the world, ignoring the
they
who define how people should live.
    “I’m going back to Central America,” I tell anyone who asks. The more I say it, the more I like how it sounds.
    Before I leave, I do a couple of responsible things. I set up an investment account so when the house sells, the money will have somewhere to go. And I arrange to get my own credit card, which I’ve never had before.
    Then I hire a bookkeeper and forward my mail to her. I also open a joint checking account with her so she can pay my bills and deposit my royalty checks. I pay her by the hour and trust her to keep accurate records.
    I do not ask for permission to live this new life, not from my kids, not from my parents, and not from my friends, many of whom are convinced that I’m avoiding the real world.
    I’m not interested in hearing lectures from people who seem to know better than I how I should live my life. I already know that single women of my age are not supposed to wander aimlessly around the world, hanging out with backpackers. They vacation in places where they can meet men, like on Caribbean cruises and European tours. And they stay in hotels that are “safe.” Unattached women rarely embrace their freedom. And about-to-be-divorced women like me do not renounce their possessions. Everyone has advice for me; but I’m not listening.
    One of my friends buys me a drink before I leave. Taking off like that, she says, is not psychologically healthy. “You’ve got to deal with it. You can’t run away.”
    But I’m not running away. I’m running toward . . . toward adventure, toward discovery, toward diversity. And while I was in Mexico I discovered something intriguing: Once I leave the