I’ve just come across another blog that is referencing me as proof of why divorce is scary. “Please tell me it won’t happen to me!” she pleads.
In the words of my esteemed, dearly-departed grandmother: Oy. Vey.
Apparently, as I am highly educated and obviously brilliant (no, I never joined MENSA; those people have no sense of humor), it is just so wrong that my life didn’t work out precisely as planned. How do marriages go wrong when you’re so smart is the implication I get.
Last time I checked, there were precious few guarantees in this life. Would I have liked things to be different? Hell yes. Is this the way it worked out? Yup. Will I still be fine? Yup. Am I grateful for my blessings? Every day. Is my life a cautionary tale? Not particularly. It’s just a life. Do I know far too many people who’ve been forced to endure way more hardship? Sadly, yes.
I’m not scary. I’m human. And I’m going through exactly what I need to go through to get to where I’m supposed to be. I won’t claim I always do it with grace, but I’m doing the best I can. Sometimes I wish it were easier, but the truth is that I tend towards being an ungrateful pain in the ass… and I need a good smattering of difficult to juxtapose the good stuff and make me appreciate it. I have absolute faith that I’m where I need to be.
You can sit around being afraid of the things that might happen, or you can live. Seems like a pretty easy choice, to me.