Back in our salad days of love, when we were about half way through our seven month courtship, my soon to be ex-husband-- soon to be husband at the time-- let me paint his toenails dark blue. Once his size twelves dried, he galumphed proudly up to the beach and around the conservative little shore town where my family has spent their summers for generations. Some folks raised their eyebrows but most raised his glass and toasted the man who was presumably "made for me." He was smart, funny, creative, driven, then throw in the confidence of throwing caution-to-the-wind and he was a dream come true. Sound the trumpets.
So we did.
Months later, we were engaged. Ten months later, we were to be married. A grand wedding was planned. A lovely dress was bought. We were feted and fawned over until finally the big day arrived.
My father-- a memorable public speaker who reluctantly embraced the spot light-- had worked hard and surreptitiously on his father-of-the-bride toast and now it was his turn to speak. He stood there, beaming and be-tuxed, and told 180 of our nearest and dearest how pleased he was that Jim and I had found each other. He made mention of his first favorable impressions of Jim and how excited he was for our future. Dad had looked up on the Internet some phraseology from Jim's entirely foreign career path (my father was an artist, Jim was the opposite) and wove his newly-learned definitions into the speech with a panache that suggested how proud he was of his new son-in-law's impressive career path and smacked of his willingness to embrace him as family. Wrapping things up he said, "You know, there were some in this small town who clucked when they saw Jim's blue toenails, but I'm hear to tell you," and he leaned into the mic and steadied his voice for effect, "any son-in-law of mine who wants to paint his toenails blue, is okay by me." Then he stepped away from the mic, bent down, and took off his shiny black shoes and socks to reveal that he had, indeed, painted his toenails dark blue. The crowd went wild. My dad had brought down the house.
Fast forward eight years. Our marriage had reached the harrowing depths that marriages have to reach before something or some one gives. Jim and I separated with Jim moving an hour away to the big city-- city of dreams-- for the usual textbook last-gasp rigmarole. After a year of separat
ion, my dream died and so did my father. By now I expect the marriage to expire, my dad's death, on the other hand, was a complete surprise. I was blind-sided. But after the year I'd had, I was almost used to this feeling of harrowing, moaning-groaning despair. Almost.Six weeks after my dad died and a day after we scattered his ashes, my pending-ex-husband did something that necessitated that I retain a divorce attorney pronto. Time to get this ball rolling. And so with that, I headed into her office with calm resolution, empty tear ducts, and a sharpened number two pencil. My attorney was a whip-smart, toughened Jersey Girl in her forties-- her haircut, like her suit, was no nonsense. She laid it all out for me and explained the deal in the simplest of terms and then we set about disentangling our finances, which, for those of you unfamiliar to these waters, is really all a divorce is at the end of the day. The rest is emotional muckety-muck which should be directed at one's therapist or drinking buddies and has no business in the crass bureaucracy of divorce. When we were nearly through, she got up from the table to make a xerox. When she returned, I glanced at her feet.
She was wearing open-toed sandals. Her toenails were blue.
My conservative, beige-suit-wearing divorce attorney's toenails were dark blue. The same shade of blue as my ex and my dad. On this day of all days, of all seasons, of all time-- the same freaky shade of friggin' blue. Not green or purplish, light blue or mauve, or any one of a jillion shades of red which, lined up end to end could reach Pittsburgh and back again, but dark blue.
I asked her about it and she laughed and then told me in a clipped aside that no, this was not her usual shade. Her teenage daughter put her up to it. I told her the abridged version of my story and she touched her forehead to the table in disbelief. Yeah, you and me both.
The next day I told an old friend my story. She got goosebumps. She was convinced that my dad was sending me a message.
"And what message would that be?" I asked.
"You know, that you're doing the right thing," she said, "That your dad's still behind you 100%."
My dad had been my greatest advocate in my life's Spanish soap opera turn of events. Not because he didn't like my ex, but because he wanted what was best for me and my son and was convinced that I knew what that was. Remarkably, I did and I do. I think he was also secretly pretty relieved that I hadn't turned to drugs or prostitution as a result of my last year's undoing. Now, as I fill out the at-times overwhelming tsunami of paperwork, I occasionally imagine his particularly exuberant voice telling me how proud he is of me. Then I push away from the calculator and have myself a little cry.
I told my friend that I liked the idea that my father was sending me a message via my attorney's toes, but that I would prefer to think of it as a sort of cosmic wink. After all, I've known for months that I would have to make this decision myself, with no outside influence or encouragement. And that ultimately I am making the right choice, regardless of what signs or signals Dad sends me. Although, I do get a huge kick out of this sort of thing and hope they keep 'a comin'.
So there's a little full-circle fun for ya. The next time you get a pedicure, you can think o
f me and my dead marriage and deader father and my alive and well divorce attorney.You know I will. And I won't be choosing dark blue.
