Counting Down

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tic –

All right, all right,  we get the point already. Passage of time. Slow, steady movement toward an important moment. But what could it be, the devoted readers of C?WC? ask. Why the countdown?

It’s simple: In roughly 36 hours, the IMD will be “I” no more. It will be dissolved. This is, of course, the de jure divorce, since we know the Fex conducted her own de facto one so long ago (and every time I think of that, words from an Elvis song come to mind, from “The Greatest Thing”: “Punch the clock and in time you’ll get pulled apart, if you’re married on paper but not in your heart”).

I am resigned to it, now. No, more than resigned – eager to take that next step towards closure, finality, whatever you want to call it. My only fear: the weather. Dear God, if this approaching storm delays the proceedings, I, I will – I will cry. No, what I will do, as I’ve told several friends, is walk to the courthouse if I have to and shovel out the frigging building myself, to make sure the dissolution comes.

I’m also worried about the weather affecting my apres-divorce plans. A friend has offered to console me that evening, and we plan on happy hour cocktails (for me, my first Scotch in ages) and dinner at the fine local Turkish establishment and then perhaps a DVD at my house. But more likely, just hanging out and talking.

But no champagne.

A few weeks ago, I found a bottle of bubbly rolling around in the crude wooden cabinet in the basement that serves as my state-of-the-art, climate-controlled wine cellar. I had bought it for the holidays then forgot about it. I thought I could find some appropriately celebratory event that would call for cracking it open, and I suggested to my friend that D-Day just might be the right time.

Now I’m not so sure. It‘s really not something to celebrate, this divorce I initially did not want, that roiled my innards and broke my heart and made my mind race with thoughts of future upheavals without end. But it is not something to mourn, either. Not anymore. It‘s here, it‘s reality, it‘s probably what should have been long ago. Finally, I see, it’s right. And somehow it feels wrong to celebrate the passing of a best friend out of your life. Scotch and Turkish food and perhaps some mawkish recollections will suffice.

I could be wrong, but somehow I doubt the Fex is counting down the hours as I am. She is not as obsessive as I. She is more – detached. And perhaps she won’t feel the need to celebrate either. After all, it has been one big party, I reckon, since she set out on her own some 7 months ago, free from my stifling influence, from the emotional and physical intrusion into her life that I represented for so long. Yup, just another day.

I’ve spend many weeks wondering what I will say to her at the courthouse. Any last words, I’ve thought of asking, in our waning minutes as husband and wife? And after, when the judge has passed his pronoucement and we are no longer married – will I spew out so much of the anger I’ve felt these last months? Will I be magnanimous? Or will I just say “See ya,” as I have so often when she’s left our house (my home) over the last few months? Yeah, I think that about covers it. Because there’s really nothing else that needs to be said. That I no longer love her, or respect her, but wish her no ill – she wouldn’t care one way or the other if I said that. There’s nothing that she will want to hear. Nothing that would make any difference.

And the clock rolls on…

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~ by mburgan on January 25, 2011.

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