There was the “Dr. Phil and mint chocolate chip ice cream” phase, where I sat up and watched the good doctor rip cheating spouses to shreds. I recorded each and every episode and watched them over and over. I even imitated the twang in his voice as he said, “Whyyyy would you do thattt?!” And I rewarded myself an extra scoop each time I didn’t yell “Liar!” when the cheating spouse tried to justify himself.
There was the “recent divorcée group” phase, where I tried to connect with other hurt women at a local church. It was kind of like Alcoholics Anonymous, but shockingly more depressing. None of the women could get two sentences out without sobbing; and, by the time it was my turn, I was too numb to speak.
I was planning to end this phase after a few weeks, but after one particular meeting, the lead advisor asked me not to come back. She said she’d noticed that every time I was asked to give a suggestion about an ex-husband to a grieving divorcée, I always said, “You should have him murdered.”
I assumed the dead pan tone of my voice and the seriousness in my eyes prevented them from seeing that I was joking...
I even went through an “I am woman, hear me roar” phase where I made the following drastic decisions: 1) Cut my waist length hair to barely shoulder length. 2) Picked up a new habit—smoking, which lasted all of one day. 3) Got a tattoo of my “freedom date” (the date of my divorce) on my foot, pierced my ears, and actually accepted the shop’s complimentary belly button piercing. 4) Blasted female power anthems whenever I was in my car, in my work office, or at home cleaning. (I’m pretty sure my daughters trashed and burned my Shania Twain CD...) 5) Sold all my worldly possessions—except my TV...and my e-reader...and my iPod...and my—Okay, so I just gave away everything that belonged to Ryan.
As I was testing out all these phases, my career as senior marketing chair for Cole and Hillman Associates continued to suffer miserably: Our newest client’s product was named “Infidelity” and the company insisted on using the phrase “Some vows were made to be broken” as the tagline.
It wasn’t until I spent an entire day crying in a public restroom that I realized what I had to do.
I had to leave. I had to start moving on.
I quit my job, withdrew my daughters from school, and packed up my SUV. I used what little settlement money I received from my divorce and made the cross country drive from Pittsburgh to my mom’s hometown of San Francisco, California.
I bought a small fixer upper in a quaint neighborhood, a house at the very top of a slope. I watched numerous HGTV shows and completed several home improvement projects as my therapy, as a way to keep my mind busy: I stripped all the carpeting and installed hardwood and sleek ceramic tile. I painted each and every room—soft taupe, cream-less ivory, café olay, woodsy red.
Within three months of moving, I’d had numerous job interviews, but very few call-backs. After realizing that my options were limited in the recession, I reluctantly took a mid-level marketing job at Statham Industries, a huge downgrade and pay-cut from my previous position.
I told myself that less money wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, it was a new thing and I needed to do more new things in order to truly move on.
Since I’d never been a fan of running, I woke up early every morning and forced myself to run—half a mile at first, then a full mile, and then eventually three miles a day.
I had my hair chopped even shorter—from shoulder length to bob-length. I started treating myself to a day at the salon twice a month, something I’d always dreamed of doing but never found the time to do. I even shopped for a whole new wardrobe—trading in my trademark all-black outfits for colorful silk blouses, pencil skirts, flattering dresses, and well-fitted suits.
One day while I was out shopping, I met a woman named Sandra Reed. She was one of those people with a mild-mannered yet upbeat personality, someone I felt like I could instantly trust—like I could tell anything to; I was pretty sure her career as a psychiatrist had something to do with that.
When I opened up months later and told her the real reason why I’d fled to San Francisco, she insisted that I start going to therapy. Out of respect for our budding friendship, she recommended me to one of her firm’s renowned associates and wrote off my sessions for free.
She always encouraged me to go out, to try finding men at singles’ mixers, and to actually attempt dating again. Yet, after four years of being in San Francisco, I still couldn’t bring myself to do it.
I didn’t believe too many men would be interested in a middle aged divorcée, and doubted that any man would be able to heal the wounds inflicted by Ryan and Amanda.
Chapter 2
Jonathan
Jesus, she’s sexy...
I was at a business dinner with some associates when I spotted a gorgeous redhead looking out over the deck of Pacific Bay Lounge.
She was absolutely stunning. The short black lace dress she was wearing hugged her curvy body in all the right places and I was straining to see what was underneath that plunging neckline.