Circumstances had it that I ended up announcing to my husband that I was leaving him a day before the New Year’s Eve. This not very nice timing was possibly my revenge to the mankind (as opposed to womankind) which I subliminally sought since I was abandoned by a boyfriend fifteen years ago precisely on the New Year’s Eve. The bl00dy b@st@rd of a boyfriend had it premeditated. I didn’t.
The husband didn’t welcome the news, but found it hysterically hilarious, as blogged about here. Further blackly comic situations arose from our mutual agreement that the family won’t be notified until absolutely inevitable. There was Hogmanay, several friend visits and a family theatre visit ahead. I had little trouble keeping appearances because that’s what I’d been largely doing these last years. My opponent and accomplice was however coping poorly, as if he had just learned that his wife couldn’t bear living with him any longer.
The first thing in the New Year my in-laws visited, uninvited, and brought along my nephew, who was even less invited than them. The five-year-old kid scares the kittens out of me, as elaborated on here. (I know there are no kittens in the original idiom, but I need kitty cuteness to counterbalance the nephew’s nastiness.) This time the tiny terrorist scared the puppies out of my husband, as he (nephew) grew inexplicably fond of our (husband and mine) wedding video and insisted on playing it on the loop during the visit.
Turning his back on the video, the husband gave the impression of a tortured soul, though I know fine that debt collectors don’t have souls. Re-watching the video with curiosity, I was morbidly amused because as is known, crazy cat ladies don’t have feelings besides for their cats. I noticed with a tinge of self-envy not as much that I seemed happy, which I admittedly did, but rather that I was a bonnie lassie. Bonny and bony too. I don’t want the years back, but I could do with the figure. Devil? Anyone? Where do I sign?
The trip to the theatre, a Christmas gift experience for my mother, turned out to be more of a challenge when I discovered that the play was a dark divorce comedy. I had previously checked with the soon-to-be-divorced husband whether he was sure he wanted to attend, and he insisted. Now I insensitively concluded that the details of the programme didn’t need to be shared and decided to perform a psychosocial experiment instead. The things we do for science. You are free to hang me now and call me Doctor Mengele. Or not.
The husband enjoyed the play, as did my mother and I. In a strikingly good humour, he observed that the piece was about life and that the lead actress looked very good in her form-fitting costume. I grumbled in response to his about-life phrase, which is a cliché he uses ten times a day, but agreed that the actress certainly had a good ass. The grounds for divorce in the play was the wife’s coming out as gay, and now I’m sure that my soon-to-be-former husband thinks that’s what I am. Divorce is proving to be much more fun than its vilifying publicity suggests. Seriously.