Thirty-Seven Years

That's how long we would be married if we'd stayed together.

Instead, we were married for twenty years and now we've been divorced for seventeen.

Randomly, out of the blue, I realized it was our anniversary yesterday as I was chatting with a member of the hotel staff who asked me to rate the place.  When I wrote the date, I remembered.

I remembered it was thirty-seven years ago that I said, "I do."

There was a time I'd remember this date and cringe, but no more.

I can appreciate my marriage for what it was (at first happy, then melancholy, then resentful), and I can appreciate my time since my divorce for what it has been (filled with anger and bitterness, followed by forgiveness, peace, and adventure).

Do I ever wish I was still married?

No.

Never.

I didn't discover who I was until I was divorced, and like I've said many times before, I discovered I like me.

Crazy.

Loud.

Opinionated.

Me.

The me who doesn't give a rip if you like me or not.  The me who is no longer trying to please the world, or someone in it.

I like her . . .

Independence.

Boldness.

Honesty.

So this reminder of my anniversary fills me, not with regret, but with thanksgiving.

I'm grateful for the experience of marriage and my two wonderful sons it produced, but I'm even more grateful for my divorce, for with it has brought me to this place of peace and contentment.