Dressing for Divorce

I’m the Baddest Bitch. At least, that’s what some young twenty-something turned back to tell me, breaking away from his group of friends as they rushed by sometime after midnight on the streets of downtown Columbus. It was my last weekend as a married woman, and I had treated myself with as much kindness, dignity, and selfishness as possible.

I made arrangements to drive several hours away, visit friends, take in a show and spend the night in a nice hotel. In every way, it was a nearly perfect trip; the drive was easy, the performance I attended was well-done and entertaining. My friends were loving and generous and were a salve to my soul. When I arrived at the hotel, I was upgraded to a suite on the 15th floor with a lovely view, apparently because I was having a good hair day. I smiled to myself when this happened, because I had been serendipitously upgraded to a free suite once before in my life; it had been my wedding day, and now, days before the finalization of my divorce, it was happening again.

I had quiet hours to myself. I drew a hot bath and soaked in lavender salts in the middle of the day. I massaged lotion into my neglected, flaking skin and applied toner made with rose petals and witch hazel to my face. It was late afternoon, and even with the softening of natural light, I didn’t fully recognize the woman in the full-length mirror. It had been awhile since I had really looked. I laid my clothes out and dressed slowly, because I had the time. Black pants, v-neck tank, jacket, boots, drop earrings; my decades-old go-to uniform. Heels high, hair higher. Eyeshadow in blazing green and copper- no; it seemed too much and didn’t match the silver grays that are now plainly noticeable around my temples and ears. Less makeup, more face. This was a practice run.

Had I taken this much care when I dressed for my wedding? I had not. After staying up all night on New Year’s Eve in New York, we had flown to Vegas and arrived two hours before our scheduled ceremony. I slept for an hour, slipped into my red wedding gown, twisted my hair back into two combs that I had fastened a veil onto, and casually smeared on a dollop of red lipstick. He snapped a picture of me in the elevator on our way down. That’s the only photo that exists of that day. I was young and glowing. And also, I was standing alone. It was never really about us, as much as it was about his gaze on me. I never gave it much thought; it was a role I was very confident in.

But years later, standing in front of this hotel room mirror, I took in reality. I hardly resemble the girl standing in the elevator on her way to the chapel. My body has lived. It is rare for me to smile more than halfway. My breasts sag and my belly is ample and soft, with silvery faded scars where it could not stretch any further with the life that had grown inside it. The sun has given freckles to my arms, and a crepiness to the skin of my chest. Still, I did not dislike what I saw. Was this it? He had not looked at me in years. Was there something that I was missing that made it worse than I thought?

In four days, I will walk into the court room and he will see me for the last time as his wife. I acknowledge that a small part of me wants him to, at least for a second, see me one last time and wonder what he’s doing; why has he missed out on me for so long? Maybe the jacket is too stark. Maybe I should wipe off the lipstick or slip on some flats. No.

What I should be asking myself is, “Why do you care so much about someone who has dismissed you so completely?”

My head is high as I walk down the street. “You better strut!” a young woman smiles and calls out as we pass each other on an empty sidewalk this morning. Mildly hungover and coffee in hand, it’s an obvious sort of thing, to strangers. Confidence is a part well-played, and I am the Baddest Bitch, after all.