I build the version of you that I love inside of me, even though you’re right in front of me. I think everyone does, often without knowing it, and they get upset when that inner version disagrees with the truer, fleshier version, which has the advantage of being incarnate but is, quite frankly, unknowable, unstable, and unpredictable. I get upset, too, like anyone, when I am stung by disappointment or surprised by some mismatch between the working model of you that I carry within me and who you are being, to me, right now.

But even in the worst and most devastating of partings, the consolation prize is incomparably valuable: a new imaginary friend, made out of the best parts of you, that can walk with me for the rest of my days, saying exactly what you would say and doing exactly what you would do, were you ever and always your very best self.

The beauty of you, the things you do well, your areas of mastery: they are mine now. I have not stolen them from you, but I have copied them over months and years, and I will faithfully keep them on file.

I know the joke you would make, here, and it makes me laugh. I know the advice you would give, here, and it calms me. I stand up for what’s right and you agree with me, and even if no one else can see or hear you, it makes me stronger; it lends me power. Long after you are gone, your companionship remains one of my most treasured possessions. You let me see myself; you keep me company; you remain my true friend.

Regardless of where the real you has gone next, regardless of the harm you will do or the mistakes you will make, you are safe with me. I protect you in defiance of the things that are wrong with all of us, the things that we cannot help, and it is an honor to be your steward.

You are the smirk on my face as I walk alone, on the sidewalk. You are the rueful shake of my head when I make that habitual mistake, the one you hated, you know the one, and then I have to laugh, because oh my hell, it drove you nuts. You are the smile around my toothbrush in the morning, punctuating some passing thought that touches down to rest with me for a moment, a welcome visitor, before flitting away again. You are my party anecdote, a man made legend, and deservedly so. I share you, and in that sharing, your past efforts–those valiant efforts that nonetheless could not fix what needed to be fixed–can now at last be made victorious, as a toast, as a punchline, as a celebration.

Loving you has made me more than myself. It has made me us.

And despite my hopeless humanity, I will try, upon our meeting years in the future, to have lived up to those good parts that you kept, so that you can recognize me, the way I promise to recognize you.

ALMOST COMICALLY INDISTINGUISHABLE FROM ANY OTHER HUMAN BEING ALIVE
I like fun. I enjoy going out, staying in, and eating food that tastes good. I also enjoy snuggling and laughing. Sometimes I watch movies. I live in a house and have a job. The first thing people usually notice about me would have to be my smile, my eyes, or my unique inability to pick myself out of a lineup. (My friends could, though, and they claim I am attractive, with a great sense of humor.)

PRETTY OBVIOUSLY TRAUMATIZED
I’m looking for a girl who won’t use me as a sugar daddy, cheat on me, lie to me, steal from me, send me a breakup video of her peeing on my toothbrush, later reveal herself to actually be a tranny, or kill my cat and hang it from the light fixture for me to find when I come home. NO GAMES. Please reply with subject line “I’m real” or I will just assume you are a spam-bot.

NOT REALLY MAKING ANY SENSE
27/M/yourtown HWP DDfree LOL EOE sound good hit me up peace j/k

WILDLY AND ALMOST POIGNANTLY OPTIMISTIC
I am looking for a woman to come over to my house and give me a blowjob while I’m playing video games. Please arrive dressed in a trenchcoat with nothing underneath (garter belt will be provided). When you are finished, don an apron and high heels, bake me a cake, frost it with a personal message (just make it out to Jerry), and then leave immediately, leaving only several nude Polaroids of yourself behind, preferably ones of you making out with the optional stripper I am willing to hire for the occasion. I will consider all applicants but I am more likely to select you if you send me your phone number, a good picture of you, an in-depth essay on your merits (resume also acceptable), and $50. Good luck.

SHAMELESSLY WORKING SOME KIND OF POSSIBLY OCCASIONALLY EFFECTIVE MARKETING ANGLE
I can’t wait to find a woman to spoil. I’m looking for someone who likes to be showered with rose petals like the queen she is. I love buying expensive gifts, giving daylong massages, and making dinners from scratch to serve by candlelight. Compliments to you will stream endlessly out of my mouth, even when I am sleeping, because I will dream only of you. The only thing I ask in return is that you allow me to occasionally stop painting your toenails just long enough to bask in your glow like an ancient South American sun worshipper.

NOT PARTICULARLY FAMILIAR WITH THE THEORIES OF DR. FREUD
I’m just looking for a girl who is attractive enough to meet my standards. I work out constantly while simultaneously sitting on a motorcycle that I have attached to a parachute so that I will have something to rev loudly while skydiving. My hobbies are cars, muscles, protein, and shark-wrestling. I’m so virile that I have to use custom-made lead condoms, not that the regular ones would be big enough anyway. You can only see me kissing one bicep in the picture but I assure you that the other one is bigger. If you know how to handle a real man and you aren’t fat or ugly, hit me up.

SHOULD MAYBE NOT EVEN BE HERE RIGHT NOW
I am looking for someone to restore my belief in love and teach me about the power of second chances now that my marriage has fallen apart. Or at least it will probably fall apart, because she not only told me it’s over and walked out of the room a few minutes ago, but I can also hear her packing a suitcase right now and rounding up the kids to take them to her mother’s house. My ideal woman will be patient, forgiving, and willing to help me put the pieces of my heart back together right after we mop them up off the floor they are currently splattering onto.

PROBABLY BLUFFING SO DON’T EVEN WORRY ABOUT IT
Hey, you. Yeah, you. I can see you. Are you her? Are you the one? I’ve been looking all over for you, and I know you must be out there. It isn’t creepy that I’m addressing you directly, is it? Because I feel as if I have known you all our lives, and I know that you must be looking for me too. Message me, and let’s see where this goes! I can’t wait to meet you, and I do mean YOU, the one sitting right there, looking at her computer screen.

ACTUALLY PRETTY DECENT
I find a creative way to demonstrate that I am smart and funny, rather than requiring you to take my word for it. While I know what I want, I’m happy to demonstrate my reasonable expectations by avoiding gagworthy phrases like “the one” and “soulmate.” My picture is larger than four pixels and also from this decade, I trust you to get my jokes, and I don’t mind poking fun at myself. I am rare, and I’m pretty sure you’ll be smart enough to pick up on that without me begging you to believe me. I don’t take any of this too seriously, and I’m aware that the odds of this working out aren’t great, but I do not consider myself too good to put forth a reasonable effort, nor do I demonstrate a pathological fear of wasting my time, so I’m happy to give it a go. I am clearly okay with it not working out anyhow, seeing as there is obviously a lot more to me than my love life. Unfortunately, this amazing impression of me you’re getting has more to do with my innate writing ability and shrewd approach to representing myself well than any of my actual attributes as a person, but … well … it’s a start. Isn’t it?

I was standing on a curb in Bangkok, just minding my own business, waiting to cross the street, as one does every day without encountering any elephants. But when I turned my head, there he was, inches from my face—either a baby or some sort of mini-elephant, I have no idea, but if you have ever met an elephant unexpectedly, you know that there’s really no mistaking it for anything else. I was too delighted to be very startled; besides, I was so jetlagged that I had probably left any hard-wired startle reflexes back on the other side of the international date line.

He was waiting too, stretching his stubby little elephant toes against the pavement idly. I offered a dollar and asked his owner if I could touch him. (I could, of course; it was Bangkok, where you could probably offer someone a dollar and ask them for a piggyback ride and find yourself jostling along and shouting “giddyup!” merrily only a moment later.)

I reached out and patted him between his long-lashed eyes while he investigated me (to see whether I had any treats in any of my pockets, I’m assuming). He was bristly; for some reason I had anticipated something soft and buttery, akin to a worn-out leather jacket, but the bristles pushed back against my hand, surprising me. Meanwhile, his trunk patted me hello. He was benign, but not bored; I don’t pretend to be an expert, but I think he was probably a pretty good elephant.

I still think of that, all the time—the texture of him under my palm while I stood there in wonder, in the middle of a city, under the streetlamp, amid the crazy Bangkok traffic rushing by around me, with my hand on an elephant.

I’m unpacking right now, unspooling after folding everything away, making myself small, and battening down for several major life changes. I’m realizing that there is no hook in the kitchen for my apron, but that I like waking up to the sound of traffic in the morning. I can’t find a good place for my bathroom organizer, but I actually have room for a real dining table again. I don’t know what it all will look like, yet; right now, it’s not a big picture, just a collection of jubilant realizations and subdued disappointments, with the occasional dash of panic.

It consoles me to know that, just as I did then and have done many times since, I will find the good things. Good things may not be sent to me by some benevolent spirit, and I may not know how to look for them or even what they’re supposed to be. But I can find them anyway, despite myself, while I’m waiting, simply by looking around.

And even through my anxious brain will probably always insist on straining to spontaneously develop psychic abilities, I know for sure that sometimes, life is even better when you never saw it coming.

And then I go out into the world and fuck it all up again, and how.

I write them out because it helps me, because it makes them more solid and strings them all together. I write them out because I am moving to a new place that offers a new chance to lean on them a little harder, to have a little more faith.

It’s not technically spiritual, I guess, but it’s the best I can do. I invite you to take what helps you and leave the rest.

******

With the occasional exception of your close friends, no one wants to hear you complain. If they do, I will bet you ten dollars that it’s usually just to make themselves feel better about how much THEY complain.

There is no point in following through with a goal if it is no longer what you want. What are you trying to prove, and to whom? If some people were more fickle, they might not spend their lives painted into a corner. You are rarely truly painted into a corner as long as you don’t mind getting a little dirty on your way out.

The more you have, the harder any of it is to appreciate. Make your lavish purchases carefully, rarely, and relatively sensibly, and you will discover that “everyday treasure” is not an oxymoron.

It is pointless to sit around and feel appalled at the state of the world. If you have no intention of taking action, you might as well have spent that time enjoying yourself. At least then someone would have benefited. Unless, of course, you are the sort of person who simply enjoys the superior feeling you get from being appalled about everything, in which case, fine, but in that event, any feeling of charitability you’re enjoying is probably unfounded.

Don’t expect anyone else to be nearly as invested in your trials and tribulations as you are. You’re a grownup now. Your dance-recital days are long over.

Those who wrong you are your best teachers. They are walking, talking opportunities for you to become a better person. Also, sometimes? They’re right. (I am paraphrasing wisdom stolen from the Dalai Lama himself. I don’t think he would mind.)

Unless the person in question is a child, you can’t care about someone’s welfare more than they do. I mean, really. That’s just silly.

No one else is responsible for your happiness. If you expect them to be, they will deeply disappoint you eventually, if not frequently.

It could always be worse. It could always be better. But only allow those facts to be relevant to the extent that it actually helps you to make things better, because they are true for everyone.

Talking about this awesome thing that you are going to do is not an accomplishment in and of itself. Save your breath and just do something awesome. Then you can talk about it. You’ll look like less of an idiot that way, all while neatly reserving the right to change your mind about writing a book or running a marathon or giving up sugar. If you need accountability, skip the showboating and just tell your good friends of your intentions and ask for their support. (If you do change your mind, good friends can generally be trusted to gauge whether you’re wussing out or simply returning to reality.)

Don’t assume, and don’t take it personally.

Your love for someone does not imply an obligation on their part to do what you want. Nor are you obligated to humor those who love you. You exist in a tribe of passionate people; you could lose your every waking moment to their concern for you if you let yourself.

It’s not okay to spend all of your money now and save nothing for the future. It’s really not. Carrying a balance on your credit card while you continue to spend money on non-necessities is not cute, and it’s not something you can laugh ruefully about as if you are Bridget Jones or Carrie Bradshaw. Both of those characters are fictional for a reason: reality eats people like them alive, the filmed portrayal of which would be considerably less charming or endearing. You? You’re debilitatingly, inescapably nonfictional, so please don’t sell shares of your future welfare in order to buy a new pair of rollerskates. You’re smarter than that. Finance is not rocket science; it’s addition and subtraction, for God’s sake. If you can’t master that, it’s because you prefer not to, and that is some seriously weak shit right there.

Speak on what you care about, without aggression but also without apology. It can be hard, when you know how to be funny, to stop being funny, sometimes, but if you fail to be sincere when it’s warranted, you are selling yourself short. Let them think you’re an uncool blowhard. Maybe you even ARE an uncool blowhard. But caring fiercely is not so terrible, and not much would happen if no one ever did.

Make a bucket list if you like. Want things in life if you like. But understand that the best moments will come unbidden and unexpected; after all, their exciting novelty and breathtaking revelation will be what makes them the best. Don’t plan to the point that you cheat yourself out of genuine discovery.

Do something. Anything. You’ll feel better.

Feedback is one of the most valuable accomplishment tools in the universe. Check your bank balance. Use a stopwatch. Count your words. Feedback is neutral and objective. If you’re afraid of feedback, you’re hiding something.

Practice is the other most valuable accomplishment tool in the universe.

It all comes down to who you know, yes. It all comes down to golden opportunity, yes. So become known to the right people by deserving recognition, and take advantage of golden opportunities by rising to the occasion. I don’t know why you’re complaining that you don’t have a literary agent for a best friend when you wouldn’t have a thing to show them even if you did.

If you love it, tell everyone about it. If you hate it, try to shut up about it. Use your buying/communicating power to promote the things that are good, rather than telling everyone about that awful book they should forget about immediately and not buy. Not only are you promoting it whether you mean to or not, but you have also left the reader no better off, and you have shortchanged the person who DID write a good book or make a good movie. Plus, you aren’t such hot shit yourself, and who’s to say you could have done any better? As the saying goes, “Criticism is like showing up on the battlefield and shooting the wounded.” Criticism is also one of the easiest writing prompts; it requires less talent than almost anything else. Challenge yourself.

It’s great that you consider honesty to be such a virtue, but your secrets belong to you; keep them if you like. If you find yourself forced to lie in order to do so, forgive yourself; you are probably doing it either to allow yourself to speak of another truth or because people are asking questions they had no right to ask. Either way, it was never any of their business.

Having a wild array of options in your life can be overwhelming, but it is also a privilege that relatively few members of the human species have been so lucky to enjoy. Try not to whine about it too much. It makes you sound like an asshole.

It is later than you think—or it will be, faster than you think. And really, what’s the difference? Go.

Say it with me: “I don’t know.” Respect people enough to say it to them, too, when it’s true, which is often. It will not affect their opinion of you the way your overacademic inner child expects. (P.S. Tell your inner child that “gifted” is just an adjective that someone just totally made up in like, the 1600s. It’s not, you know, a blood type. Good grief.)

When in doubt, wait a while. When in yet more doubt, just flip a damn coin or something. It’s not that likely that there is only one right option. (If you’re convinced that one option is your happy ending and one equals CERTAIN DEATH, you’re probably wrong, no matter what the Choose Your Own Adventure books taught you.) In contrast, it is VERY likely that if you don’t learn to simply make a decision and commit to it for the time being, you will probably lose your mind.

Keep your eyes on your own work. You have plenty to do.

When my ex-husband, Jeff, and I moved to St. Louis, he knew I was unhappy with the decor of our house, but money, of course, did not grow on trees. Except that year, it did, because he cashed in some investments and spent hours twist-tying money to a festive little potted tree. Then he gave it to me for Christmas and told me to make the house we lived in ours. He wanted me to have everything; it was almost an obsession. There wasn’t one minute of the years and years we spent together that he wasn’t striving to put the world on a string and loop it around my little finger. I learned to avoid wishing aloud, lest the poor man collapse in exhaustion from his determination to fulfill whatever request I had just absentmindedly uttered.

Case in point: he once rethrew an entire birthday party for my father because I had accidentally deleted pictures of my father and his birthday cake, then wept to the point of hiccups, like a small child, because I had so few good pictures of my dad (and also I was possibly hormonal as all hell). At any rate: Jeff duplicated the entire thing, right down to the cake and the mylar balloons. He invited everyone, and believe it or not, they came. Again. He warned me beforehand because he knows that even wonderful surprises tend to fluster me beyond repair. One of the pictures I took that day is my favorite picture of my parents; it sits above their fireplace.

Every night he was home, as he was falling asleep, he would ask if the rabbits could come sleep with us. They couldn’t, of course, but he was always trying to talk me into it. “Just for a minute,” he would plead, his eyes already closed, smiling into his pillow. He called Maisie, a fat, grumpy little rabbit who kind of hated us, his little princess; he would rabidly defend her when I implied she could stand to lose weight (though he would, when pressed, grudgingly admit that she was “curvy” or “a little portly”). Before he left town, he would put on his hat and coat and then tell Hugh the Rabbit to take care of the house while he was gone. He snuck extra treats to both of them when I wasn’t looking; I feigned exasperation, but the truth is that the sight of him trying to conspire with them always made me laugh.

He made me breakfast. He put gas in the car. He always left my train tickets under my keys. He did damn near every dish I made for seven years. He automatically bought tickets to any concert he knew I would be interested in going to, then stuck them to the fridge. He never forgot an anniversary of anything, even the more obscure ones. He supported me financially without resentment, without even really thinking about it. He told me that he knew I was a good writer, because he wasn’t a reader but he loved everything I ever wrote. He called me “J.H.,” a play off J.K. Rowling’s name.

When we were splitting up our stuff, we had enough wedding pictures for both of us, thanks to duplicate sets. At one point, while we were arranging the pictures in little piles, we both started laughing. Because isn’t this crazy? Isn’t this flat-out RIDICULOUS? And yet my relationship with this man, he of the clean dishes and the endless encouragement, had become damaged beyond repair. Can you believe that? I couldn’t either; some people still can’t.

I don’t blame them, but I know what I know—even if, for a little while there, it was impossible to believe. It’s over. And the minute those two brutal words sink in, you can move on to … well, an even worse stage! Yay!

THE BLACK HOLE SUN STAGE

Everything stood still, Hiroshima style. Batteries went dead; unanswered texts and e-mails piled up like dead leaves on the doorstep of an abandoned house. There had been a Before, and as inconceivable as it might have seemed at the time, there would be an After, too. But this was the in-between. This was the space where nothing existed but a blank and oddly numb sort of pain. Even the sorrow was static; it didn’t budge or flow, but calcified in my chest and limbs, weighing me down and keeping me still. I didn’t know anything; I didn’t want anything. I was inanimate, a sunken stone.

Everything in the refrigerator stayed where it was (but not AS it was, unfortunately for my gag reflex about three weeks later). Scooted-out chairs collected dust while silently emphasizing spaces now pointedly unoccupied. Mail kept arriving, addressed to an entity that no longer existed. This was odd; hadn’t they heard? Hadn’t the entire world heard? It had been deafening, which made the ensuing quiet all the more unnerving.

THE GROUNDHOG STAGE

But, as it turned out, people had no idea. When I finally crawled out of my hole and looked around a bit, I discovered that the sun was still doing its thing, along with everyone else. They would smile at me, ask how I was, ask how Jeff was. Did we have any travel plans coming up?

This was unfathomable. I felt sodden with what had happened, like I’d been physically dunked in it, like I squished when I walked. I still wore makeup and sported shiny hair, of course, but so do dead people; it’s just protocol. But as I put one foot in front of the other on the sidewalk, buses passed by me and stirred the air, just like always.

It appeared the buses were still running, then. Huh.

THE CRAZY PENDULUM STAGE

Negotiations and random tasks had worn me down to my last nerve, which, in its unprotected state, seemed to resonate wildly with whatever was going on at the time. A stranger just smiled at me for no reason? HUMANITY IS SO BREATHTAKINGLY AND TOUCHINGLY BEAUTIFUL! It started to rain? THE UNIVERSE SEIZES ITS EVERY OPPORTUNITY TO SHIT ON ME JUST FOR THE PLEASURE OF WATCHING ME SUFFER!

I had discovered the outside world still existed, but I had no idea where I belonged in it. And since everything in my zinging and abrasive Technicolor hyper-existence was marked extremely urgent, I felt a great deal of pressure to figure this out immediately—even if I had yet to regain the rationality required to do so. At one point, and I am not even kidding you, I thought I might get a motorcycle and become a forest ranger. Even though I am famously risk-averse (not to mention uncoordinated) and I loathe the outdoors.

This stage is likely to drive your poor friends crazy. One day, you’re explaining to them quite earnestly why you have nothing to look forward to and your life is over. The next day, you’re exuberant about your new chosen career of astronaut. “The FINAL frontier,” you will say to them, jabbing your finger toward the sky. (If you have very good friends, they won’t remind you that you passed the maximum age for military aviators three years ago and that you failed basic algebra. Twice.) The day after that: black despair. The day after that: a sudden and very enthusiastic obsession with the art of marionette puppetmastering, or God only knows what. Et cetera, et cetera.

This might go on for an embarrassingly long time. But it won’t be forever, so don’t bother wasting several hours a day wondering if you’re just going to be crazy like this from now on. I know I spent way too much time musing dejectedly that I had once been so SANE and trying to come up with scientific explanations for how mundane divorce tasks like the splitting of a cell phone plan could somehow be linked to actual brain damage.

THE HEALING STAGE

For me, this overlapped with the crazy pendulum stage, but it may not for everyone. In between fits of complete crazy-pendulum insanity (the darkest of which, for some reason, seemed to happen at the supermarket, which seems weird, but others have described similar incidents occurring at Target), I was rebuilding. Some of this was conscious—there is a REASON my apartment is decorated to the nines—and some of it was unconscious.

I read a lot of poetry. I read about science. I read about human achievements and human disasters. I read articles on crazy inexplicable particle behavior (quantum entanglement ftw!), on the development of human flight, on Chernobyl, on World War II. I related, I identified, I processed. I read about Jews crucified because they were blamed for the plague. I read about the turn of the earth and the replication of DNA. I read about despair and discovery in equal amounts. I completed a giant volume of world history and a giant volume of scientific history; I forgot most of it, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that sense of an expanding world, that instinctive seeking out of anything and everything I had not known as my old self.

There was something healing about awe. I turned pages in order to invoke that therapeutic awe in myself, the way someone will run miles to achieve a runner’s high. There was so much out there; the world was so massive in its ideas and nooks and customs and memories. After thinking so intensely and involuntarily of myself, of ME ME ME, it felt so good to stretch, to reach … and to realize that there is so much more to everything than who I am or how I have failed. And to realize that so many possibilities still remain.

As I picked up speed and regained the energy I had been devoting to my own personal tragedy, it started to feel as if my neurons were at a goddamn RAVE or something. Had I been hesitant to walk out into this crazy, amazing, messed-up world before? Had I been afraid to get my hands dirty, to touch and be touched?

If I had been hesitant before, now I couldn’t wait.

THE SUPERHERO STAGE

The superhero stage is my favorite divorce stage so far. (Perhaps more accurately, Kerri calls it the superherOINE stage.) I’m honestly not sure I have ever felt this powerful in my life. I think I could whip my index fingers out of imaginary holsters slung across my hips and shoot you dead with them. (Not that I would do that! You seem nice!) I am genuinely surprised at the lack of booming KAPOW! noise every time I flex my thumb in this scenario.

I belong to myself. I can do whatever I want. I can go wherever I want. I don’t have to take shit from anyone. “Compromise” is not a necessary component of my vocabulary. It sounds selfish, but it isn’t, necessarily; I’ve actually been doing more volunteering than ever before, because I can—because every hour of every day is mine to spend as I like.

I became convinced that I could do good for myself by doing good for others. My resume lacks diversity, so I called a children’s organization and told them I wanted to do their marketing and write their grants, as long as they were willing to teach me. As an unexpected perk, I now have access to a fantastic workspace. I have been frustrated by my inability to build things and fix things on my own; I signed up for Habitat for Humanity with the idea that I might learn a thing or two, only to discover that they had partnered with the community college to offer free classes on everything from reading blueprints to installing flooring.

I can tell you exactly when my superhero phase started. I was reading my bajillionth book on my Kindle when I suddenly thought, I wish I had my typewriter. For months I hadn’t been able to string a sentence together; I had stared at my manuscript, confounded at the idea that I had managed to produce ANY of this, much less that I would ever feel moved to revise it. For months I had felt inert, dependent on the words of others to pull me along. Suddenly, I wanted those keys under my hands again. Hell, I wanted to BLOG again, something I hadn’t thought about in so long that I had forgotten how to use Wordpress. I wanted to tell you about all of this, share all of it with you, breathlessly, at a rate you can barely keep up with, like Amelie dragging a blind man by the hand.

Not that you’re blind, of course, but you were unaware of what was going on with me. Which is pretty much the same thing, seeing as I am the center of the universe.

You would not believe how quickly these posts pour out; I have never written faster, and I was not a slow writer to begin with. I am inspired. I am the patron saint of divorce redemption. I am a phoenix. I am made of magic. I will change your life. I will change my life. I could strangle Chuck Norris with my bare hands. I won’t, because he has done nothing to deserve it, but I am just saying. Flowers pop up in my fucking FOOTPRINTS right now, all right?

I’m sure it won’t last. I’m sure there will be setbacks; that’s okay. But I intend to enjoy it while it lasts.

I had lunch with Jeff recently and talked a blue streak at the poor man, my soup untouched while I explained that I loved my job and I was going to build HOUSES and help the CHILDREN and have an amazing RESUME. Our past get-togethers have gone well enough, but he could tell there was something different about me this time; he kept having to pull on one of my arms in order to keep me from floating up into the sky, for instance.

“Are you happier now?” he asked. He wasn’t being maudlin; he just honestly wanted to know.

That question gave me pause like none other. My God, AM I happier now? The idea had enormous implications for both of us. But when I stopped to think about it, I knew it wasn’t true.

“No,” I finally said, after setting a Guinness World Record for bread-chewing. “I’m not happier than I was back then. I’m just finally ME again, and I’m so excited about it that I’m kicking some extra ass.”

And that’s why I wrote this post: because I have gotten so many heartbreaking e-mails since I wrote that list of divorce advice. I really didn’t expect that, considering that I’ve been blogging for about four minutes, but people like Loralee and Moosh and Avitable have been kind enough to spread the word. The response has been … humbling, and sad, because so many people separated yesterday, or the day before, or last week, and holy crap life is so wrenchingly hard sometimes.

I wrote this post because I want to tell all of those people that they will come back, and it will be amazing, and I am so excited for them. When they get there, I hope they let me know, because it will make my day. I’m thinking of all of you, future superheroes. Hang in there.

Don’t marry anyone you wouldn’t feel comfortable divorcing. If the love of your life plays the victim, if they hate all of their exes, if they say nasty things about people they used to date, there is a very good chance that person will do the same to you someday, should you find yourselves on the wrong side of some very alarming statistics. As you walk down the aisle, if you can’t count on a romantic future together, you can at least count on a romantic future that doesn’t involve property damage, the spiteful withholding of pets and/or children, and restraining orders filed on behalf of the overdramatic.

Plus, anytime anyone asks about your ex and how it’s going, you can say, “Oh, he/she is great. A++++++++, would divorce again.” Oh, come on, that’s funny.

Because it’s like eBay? Get it? Nevermind.

FOR THE HAPPILY MARRIED

Have your own friends. Have your own bank account. Have your own life. Investing in your marriage does not mean you can’t continue to invest in yourself as well. The people in your own individual social circle, the ones who belong to you as an individual, may very well wind up carrying your couch up three flights of stairs. Couches are heavy, man. Make some friends.

Don’t ditch your family just because you’re working on your own family now. If things don’t work out, your family will assemble a mean kitchen island for you, and your dad will hang your shelves. (If you did ignore them, say you’re sorry and that you’re so thankful they’re here. If you do it sincerely enough, they might buy you something. I’m just saying.)

FOR THE UNHAPPILY MARRIED

Do what you can to fix it, obviously. Obviously.

FYI: Your horror at the idea of “becoming a statistic” reveals your perception that you are somehow better than everyone else—that you assumed yourself immune to the sorts of problems that have plagued half the married population. Your desire to not become THAT PERSON, the person who gets divorced, is revealing an elitism in you that you still don’t see, not yet.

Guess what? Turns out that you are not that special, and neither was your relationship, no matter how much you enjoyed conceptualizing it as a fairy tale (I’m looking at you, psychobrides). Mmmm, humble pie! It’s delicious! When you’re done chewing, decide what you would do if everyone you knew died of the swine flu tomorrow and thus there was no one around to see what happened next. Then do that.

FOR THE DIVORCING

It’s no one’s business; feel free to tell them so. This doesn’t make you rude; they were rude to ask. Well, unless “So, are you guys still sleeping together?” doesn’t count as a rude question in your book even when it comes from your smarmy boss—in which case, I have some likeminded people I’d like to introduce you to. Maybe they’ll start conversing with you instead of me.

Cheesy music can really cheer you up. The cheesier, the better, really. Let Destiny’s Child offer you a strong moral message while also providing a beat to dance to in your new apartment. Note that your pets will not, in fact, throw their hands up at you, even if you entreat them to do so. Technically, they are not independent women, so I suppose this makes sense.

Try to let people help you, if they’re able. You have your pride, yes, but you are only one person, and there is a lot to do. Don’t worry—divorce is really common. Surely you’ll have your chance to pay it back in some way, for someone, later on down the road.

You have to do what’s best for you, as an individual. Nothing I’m about to say trumps that. Don’t lose sight of what you need. Don’t compromise your future out of guilt or a sense of obligation. Your greatest responsibility is to yourself (along with any children you might have). The ability to look out for yourself is not something admirable or special. It is your basic duty and yours alone. There is a difference between caring and vulnerability. Focus on the former.

Don’t let anyone tell you that you’re weak if you still love your ex. Hate is weak—and, paradoxically, hate is also exhausting and consuming. If you choose to do it this way, if you choose to love, be aware that some activities, like yelling your heart out to fuck-you anthems on the radio, will lose their fun. But the ability to give your ex a heartfelt hug the next time you see them will be worth it. No one is suggesting that the two of you become golf partners, but any civility you can manage is only going to help you in the future.

Don’t let anyone shame you for maintaining a friendship with your ex. If people handled rejection better and learned to stop butthurt in its tracks before they slashed anyone’s tires, maybe they would grasp that it’s a little absurd to become mortal enemies with someone you once called your best friend. This is your life; this person was once your most important thing; the two of you are adults and may do as you please. Don’t follow social protocol just because the inability to fit the two of you into a box makes everyone else uncomfortable. They’ll get over it. Upon saying hello to the two of you at a party, they’ll also get a sort of deer-in-the-headlights look as they mentally review how the extent to which they trashed your ex to everyone you know. It’s probably a little wrong to visibly savor this, so at least try to feign ignorance.

If you left them, have some patience. That probably hurt. A lot. No one in that kind of pain can be expected to behave well all the time. Maintain your boundaries, but do it as gently as you’re able.

If they left you, think about whether you really would have wanted them to continue the relationship out of guilt or obligation. Contemplate the far-out notion that they are rejecting what happens when the two of you combine your strengths and weaknesses, not rejecting you in your entirety as a human being. Blasphemy, I know.

It takes two, of course. Be the bigger person, but grasp that you can’t keep this situation friendly by yourself. Practice due diligence, turn the other cheek, and then drag the asshole to court if that’s what you have to do. (I hope for your sake that it isn’t; I have worked at a law firm, and I can tell you with certainty that no one will win.) If your ex is hateful toward you, do your best not to escalate the situation. You would be surprised how often, if you offer the benefit of the doubt, the other person will say, “I’m sorry. I’m just feeling hurt and upset right now, and I’m not thinking clearly.” If they don’t, perhaps you failed to follow the first piece of advice in this post. Ah well. Just do what you can.

No matter how you play it, the two of you will have bad days. You had bad days when you were together, too. It happens.

Even if you wish no further contact with your ex, treating them maliciously is a waste of everyone’s time. You won’t feel better, and they won’t miraculously develop an appreciation for your side of the story. That whole maxim about the flies and the honey? Remember it. Even if you’re motivated entirely by your own self-interests, cruelty is a poor choice; it’s honestly just lousy strategy.

Don’t let anyone reduce your marriage to a mistake. People want it to have been a mistake because they have determined their own current marriages to be not-mistakes. The concept of a marriage that was doomed from the start is designed to protect them, not you; in precious few cases is it really that simple. Tell anyone who tries to wave off an entire era of your life with one dismissive gesture that you wouldn’t change a thing. It might help to point out that you used to ride around in first-class suites to places like Bangkok and New Zealand (and, in fact, thanks to a generous ex, still CAN ride around in first-class suites to places like Bangkok and New Zealand). If such privileges were not in your marriage arsenal, I assume you’ll come up with something.

If you can’t say that you wouldn’t change a thing because it’s not really true, try to get to a point where you realize that it actually is true. The past few months or years are a part of who you are. Surely you learned SOMETHING, accomplished SOMETHING, experienced SOMETHING worthwhile during that time. Don’t wish yourself away.

You could always just not say anything, of course. Don’t feel pressured to defend yourself or your marriage. People can think what they want; what you think is more important. If you have a little time, though, it would be nice if you could share some insights, if only for the benefit of the next divorcing person to come along.

Resist the temptation to reduce your own marriage to a mistake. Hindsight is not, in fact, 20/20, and I can cite research to prove it. Your demise as a couple will seem so obvious in retrospect; recognize that this is false, a cognitive trick designed to protect your ego. Celebrate what was good. Don’t cling to it, but celebrate it. Perfection is not a prerequisite for something to be real and true in its own way. Nor is longevity.

While you’re celebrating all that good, don’t forget that it ended for a reason. This stuff generally doesn’t happen on its own. People don’t get into a fight over something inconsequential, like who ate the last bagel, get carried away, and oops, they’re divorced. Rejoice the good parts all you want, but don’t forget why you’re where you are. I mean, you’re going to feel like a total jackass if you have to divorce the same person twice.

Recognize that appreciating the good will make the whole deal a little sadder. Tossing aside your emotional armor can be painful, but some wounds need to hurt longer to heal well. If you wait a little longer to climb back onto your feet, it may save you years of limping around. Hot damn, that’s profound. Write that shit down.

Feel free to claim that you were a victim from the first date onward, as long as you don’t mind having this exact same relationship over again with someone else. If you’re looking for something a little different though, if only for the sake of variety, it might be best to acknowledge your role as a willing participant in the partnership. If you married your father/mother and your father/mother sucked, or if the two of you exhibited codependent behaviors of any kind, now would be a fantastic time to look into that.

Say you’re sorry. Ask to be forgiven. Forgive the other person if you can. Forgive yourself while you’re at it.

You will feel better sooner than you think. I promise.

FOR PEOPLE WHO KNOW A DIVORCING PERSON

Say it with me: “I will not assume.”

Don’t take anything personally, even if “anything” includes nine unanswered e-mails and the forgetting of your birthday. Sorry.

Be supportive. Let them decide whether they want to talk about it. Forgive wild fluctuations in emotion and opinion. One day your divorcing friend will want to be a forest ranger! The next day, a nun! One day, your divorcing friend is totally fine, and over the whole thing! The next day, whoops, still depressed. Nod, smile, and be patient. Let them work it out.

This will probably take longer than you think it should. Don’t make a sad person feel guilty or self-indulgent for being sad after whichever calendar date you have deemed appropriate. Otherwise, remorse will bite you in the ass when it’s your turn. Lo, trust this blogger regarding that of which she speaks, for she has learned the hard way.

FOR COMPLETE STRANGERS WHO MAY BE UNFORTUNATE ENOUGH TO ENCOUNTER A DIVORCING PERSON

Sometimes people kick things in public while cursing under their breath. Try not to judge them.

FOR THE HAPPILY DIVORCED

First of all, congratulations. That certainly wasn’t easy, was it?

Invest in yourself. Think. Read. Learn. You stand at a joint in your trajectory; flex it, experiment. Take advantage; you have little to lose. If you need a little courage or inspiration, read this book. Get excited; you now have the keys to an entire realm of possibility. Who are you? Who do you want to be?

If you want to meet somebody, be somebody worth meeting. Burn that wick at both ends by following your own interests and doing something with yourself: not only will you meet people who share your common traits, but you will also care less about whether you meet someone in the first place … seeing as how you went out and got yourself a fulfilling life and all.

There’s a reason you find a relationship the moment you stop looking for one; being okay on your own is the best way to attract healthy people.

Feel free to have a whore phase. I salute you! Please use a condom, though. You aren’t in Kansas anymore, and some of the flying monkeys, while in possession of an enviable level of energy, flexibility, and skill, also have herpes. Other than that, knock yourself out. You’ll probably learn something, and if you don’t, I assure you that once or twice, something will happen that is hilarious enough to cause at least one of your girlfriends to shoot beer out of her nose.

Speaking of which, be patient with your parents. They’re adjusting too, mostly to the fact that you’re a slut.

When the REAL dating begins, take it slow. You’re in no hurry. Avoid the impatient, the aggressive. Be honest with yourself and with the other person in terms of what you can handle. If they decide they want more than you can offer, don’t take it personally, and resist the urge to make promises you can’t keep.

If you do meet someone special, via sluttery or otherwise, go back to the beginning of this post. I can’t promise it’s going to work out any better this time, but it can still be okay. In fact, it can still be better than okay. No future is certain, but the fact remains that there are still countries you haven’t visited. There is still so much to see. Enjoy your life, and do it with someone you care about, and the regret you’re so afraid of will be impossible, even if you wind up getting divorced nine times. Which … okay, you should probably try not to do that, but, you know, whatever. It’s not a contest, and it’s not the end of the world.

FOR EVERYONE

Be brave. Be kind. Take care. Good luck.