Crossroads

The Unbitter End

On the road less traveled by

By Beth MacDonald

The cruelest thing I have learned about divorce is that I have been left with a poor WiFi signal and a hint of mild road rage.

My husband announced he no longer wanted to be married at some point (when is quite irrelevant at this juncture). I left. Insert real-life game of Mad Libs with four nouns, three verbs, six adjectives, one location and two party favors. Oh, have I’ve got adjectives.

I am now alone. A singular entity in my late 40s, completely unsupervised. I need to reorganize, so I turn to the food triangle I learned in grade school. I think the first thing I need is carbs. Then I realize I’ve made a rookie mistake — wrong triangle. Maslow Shelter to the rescue. My deficiency needs are definitely deficient.

I’m employed by a wonderful nonprofit organization. I love my job. A place to live seems like a good starting point. What can I afford? I go to the farthest end of the Pines, closest to Alaska. It’s beautiful, serene, the perfect place to establish a base camp where the cost of living is low. So low, in fact, that WiFi and sunlight don’t reach the ground. You have to pay extra for sunlight and, even if they offered good WiFi, I couldn’t afford it. Luckily Panera has both carbs (I’m confusing my pyramids again) and free WiFi.

I traded my luxury sports car for a reliable four-cylinder Ford SUV. I used to live 2 miles from downtown Southern Pines. Now, I live a mile down a dirt road out there somewhere. It’s beautiful. I had to simplify my life and, truthfully, loved the process. I don’t mind coaxing my four little SUV hamsters up at 7:30 a.m. to get me to work. The five of us think very hard about the decisions we make at the Pinehurst Traffic Circle.

My organization allowed me to rent office space in Southern Pines, so I can at least work at a real desk and get exposure to Vitamin D. Every day I enjoy a lovely 30-minute commute and private concert brought to you by Ford Motor Co. I practice being the lead vocals, backup singers and band (air guitar, keyboard, drums). I think I might be nominated for a Grammy by my fellow commuters queued up to get on the Traffic Circle. I don’t lip-sync — it’s full-on, live carpool karaoke.

I take Midland Road to Pennsylvania Avenue every day. The minute I make that right turn I am behind the let’s-go-23-mph-in-a-35-zone person, who I follow all the way into downtown. Every day. Every. Day. My iTunes automatically shuffles to Rob Zombie’s “Dragula.” I am now a suburbanite futzing down the road infuriated. I am white-knuckling my steering wheel as I coast past the Police Department slowly enough to make them think I’m avoiding a DUI instead of trapped in a hostage situation. I can’t even breathe until I get to my parking space and unclench my jaw.

That one minor drawback aside, I have otherwise found divorce to be freeing. Marie Kondo would be inspired by my minimalist ways. Buddha would be proud at my level of mellow. I might have found inner peace, even at 23 mph.

My first marriage ended in “till death do us part.” I am familiar with loss — not to minimize it because you can’t. Grief is always “a thing.” We grieve a lot in our lives. We grieve big losses and little losses: death, friendships, our favorite pair of shoes, our wallets. (Who wants to go to the DMV and replace a license?) So, my second marriage went on vacation, and all I got is this lousy WiFi. At least I didn’t lose my wallet.  PS

Beth MacDonald is a suburban misadventurer, author and essayist who often tries to get out of her car without unfastening her seat belt.