detached

I went out last night with my girlfriend G. The early evening was gorgeous, so we sat on her roof and shared a bottle of wine before walking to Little Tokyo for sushi and sashimi. She's exceptionally easy to talk to and I really enjoy her company. Very unlike me: a total leader, great work ethic, ambitious, grounded, and responsible. In other words: an excellent influence on me. She's a newish friend, and we've only hung out alone a few times; she works a corporate job with a killer commute to Santa Monica that leaves her exhausted most days. It's a job she's sticking out long enough to be able to start her own company - at which I'm pretty sure she'll rock. I'm glad I got her out last night. We had so much fun that we made tentative plans for a weekend getaway in San Francisco this fall, and maybe Vancouver in the spring.

Her husband joined us after a while, and the three of us went to Far Bar. I had something called a Jet Jaguar I think? Vodka, something cherry, maybe mint? It had a couple of maraschino blueberries lurking at the bottom that were not to be taken lightly. Sryyyyuppy. We talked about music, politics, architecture, their work...my lack thereof. At one point, G. conned me into chatting up some Australian dudes sharing our table. They were nice. Nice and dull. G. and I got disproportionately tipsy compared to her husband and we dragged the poor bastard across the street to another bar, where I may or may not have clowned around for their entertainment. I've been a smug married. I know how amusing a boozy divorcee with no filter and no shame is.

(Note: they're not actually smug, not in the slightest.)

It's been ages since I've played third wheel to a married couple. It dawned on me just how long it's been since I was part of one myself. November will be two years since my husband and I separated. I don't know if it feels longer or shorter or about that. It's just a sort of surreal, abstract thing now: I was married. To someone with whom I was supposed to spend the rest of my life, but to whom I don't even speak anymore.

In fact, it gave me a huge start when a few weeks ago, his name popped up as a suggestion for my Google + circle, under the lolsy banner, "People You Might Know." I clicked through to see a couple photos of him - one with his hair line looking suspiciously...restored, and one with a blonde woman he'd befriended at work while we were still married.

Cough. People I might know indeed.

Neither photo made me feel anything other than a vague, detached curiosity.

Every so often, until recently, I would send him a picture or video of the dog, that I thought he would enjoy. But he never responded, so I realized I should stop a) out of respect for his obvious desire not to be in contact with me, and b) to spare myself the slightly dejected feeling that resulted when he didn't reply. We did say "forever," after all.

I was so terrified, when he and I split up. It's really nice to be able to look back and know that everyone who cheered me on during those dark days was right: I really would be ok. There are even times when I'm a million times better than ok. When I feel deliriously happy and free and open and light. When I feel bursting with love for my friends, the people that fill my life with laughter and joy, and who challenge me to be the best version of myself I can be, just so I feel worthy of their company. When I think of the adventures that, unbeknownst to me, life had in store for me, when I said goodbye to my husband. The places I would go. The things I would see. The friends I would make, or grow closer to. The men I would meet and love. All of it was waiting for me when I took the leap. No Google + required.