Somewhere along the way, when I was cooking, cleaning, ironing, changing beds, changing diapers, working, doing the bills, cooking-oops, I said cooking twice-I had started to wonder when my life would begin. Our life goals had only diverged because I’d gotten tired of supporting him through all of his endeavors without being allowed to achieve anything for myself. Only uptight guys ironed their boxers, and only self-absorbed, entitled dickheads had someone else do it for them and then negatively critiqued the creases. I’d told him that I hoped she was young, because if she was my age-tiptoeing past forty-and had any relationship experience at all, the second she learned that he liked his boxers ironed but wouldn’t do the ironing himself, she’d be gone-skies. Someone who shared the same life goals and liked to hold hands like we used to. Someone he had more in common with, apparently. And when I pouted at his “concession” that I could stay in the house until it was time to sell, I definitely confused him. When the-now ex-husband had told me he was moving on and that he wanted a divorce, I was pretty sure he hadn’t expected me to exclaim, “Awesome!” I’m positive he didn’t think I’d start packing right away. I sat in my idling car in front of my parents’ house, going over my life choices. This was not the fresh start I’d had in mind. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Midlife madness