When How Not To Marry the Wrong Guy asked me to serve as a contributing blogger for Cold Feet Week, I was flattered. I was invited to join the marriage conversation, despite the fact that I’ve never even been married. I guess, in a way, this is my Bethenny Frankel “Real Housewives” moment. And she came out of that show with best-selling book and a lifetime supply of margaritas. Why not?
Thing is while I blog about my single life, what I haven’t really talked about is the fact that I actually have been divorced. Just not in the traditional way. The wedding was without ceremony. In fact, we skipped it all together. It was a split decision, an arrangement of convenience. But still, it shaped the person I am today.
After I moved out from the apartment I shared with my ex, I moved in with my best friend, David. It was on his couch that I nursed myself back to mental health, one spoonful of Haagen-Dazs at a time. After watching this routine for several weeks, David decided “we” should get a gym membership, before my love affair with ice cream killed any legitimate chances of a rebound. I liked the idea, but there was no way I could afford it—that gym was more than $120 a month, and even if I could pay, I’d proven that commitment was not my strong suit. Which is when David made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.
“Let’s get married,” he said, turning off the TV.
Now this took me by surprise for several reasons. One, I never thought I’d be proposed to with a pint of dulce de leche in my hand. And two, David is gay.
“I’m not sure this will be a satisfying union,” I said.
“If we are ‘married’ we can be on the same gym membership. Domestic partners count, and you’re living with me. It’s not even lying.”
“I DO!” I yelled, raising my spoon in the air.
And while I moved out from David’s condo shortly thereafter, we continued our covert marriage for more than a year. I celebrated anniversaries with saunas, towel service, and lavender body lotion. And I loved every second.
But this fall, something devastating happened. Worse than Athlete’s foot, or a Lulu Lemon wedgie: David got engaged. This time, for real.
“We have to talk,” he said, sitting me down after our Saturday morning body sculpt class. “Now that Luke has moved in with me, we’re going to start going to the gym together a lot more…”
“That’s great!” I said, hoping this topic would blow over like my bangs under the breeze of those fantastic locker room hair dryers.
“No, he’s going to join me on my membership. He’s going to replace you as my domestic partner.”
“But you and I were married FIRST!” I said, knowing full well this line of defense was futile.
So, much like it began, in an instant our marriage was over. And while I grieved the roof deck pool and the rock wall, what saddened me the most was the realization that at 31, the closest I had come to marriage was a gym divorce.
And let me tell you, there’s nothing like losing an imaginary husband to send you into an Eat, Pray, Love tailspin.
With nothing holding me back, I left Chicago. For more than ten years I had been holding on to the notion that I would go to Argentina on my honeymoon. At a certain point you stop waiting, and start doing. And those are the moments that define you.
Turns out, my “unnymoon” was the best thing that could have happened. I thought back to my ex, and wondered what it would be like if he was there with me—and remembered quickly why he never made it into my Argentina fantasy. Places are only as romantic as the people you’re with.
On one trek in El Chalten, Patagonia, I saw a couple on their actual honeymoon. It had started to pour. Not the misty, romantic rainbow kind of rain, but torrential rain daggers that pierce through daypacks and destroy maps. The woman was furious, refusing to descend, and shouting something about the fact that her new husband had not informed her there would be rain on this trip. He turned his back and screamed something about how maybe if she listened she would have packed better gear.
I quietly observed all this from my perch under a tree branch, where I was waiting out the rain and enjoying the last of my dark chocolate bar. I took out my journal and wrote, “Here’s to me.”
I’d rather be on a trail enjoying my time than traveling with someone who is holding me back. And at that moment I was grateful for every relationship I’d ever had, because somehow, they had delivered me to this place. Even my gym divorce.
And who needs a StairMaster, anyway, when you can have the mountains of Patagonia instead?
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More about Cold Feet Week: Cold Feet Week is brought to you by How Not to Marry the Wrong Guy: Is he the one or should you run? and the experts at IdonowIdont.com. Just in time for wedding season, the sponsors are doing everything they can to inspire runaway brides (and grooms) to pay attention to their cold feet before they walk down the aisle! And Cold Feet Week isn’t just for engaged people—they want to help anyone who is having doubts about his or her relationship.