D-Day

“I'm getting divorced tomorrow,” I said to a friend.
“What are you wearing?” she replied.

I had to laugh. I hadn't given it any thought, but I supposed the time would come when I would be standing in the doorway to my closet, scanning the possibilities, wondering what image to put forth. A slinky red dress and ankle strap heels? No. Ours wasn't about vengeance, but a fundamental discord in basic values, character and opinion as to what constitutes a marriage. And besides, at 8:30am on a Tuesday in Newark, who really wants to be teetering in heels at the metal detector? De trop. By the time one gets to the courthouse to sign a property settlement agreement and be formally declared divorced, trust me, there’s nothing left to prove. To anyone. I could wear a dark suit and Barbara Stanwick hat with a veil but it wasn't a sad day, entirely, either, so I decided I would dress confidently and with resolve for the courthouse. Whatever that looked like.

After three sessions of mediation following months and months of emails with my soon-to-be-ex, I'd finally come to the end of a two-year odyssey and arrived at the courthouse with only the dregs left to decide. I'd packed lightly, grabbing only a single Lego guy for comfort and strength, and ended up wearing warm, bright colors; a below-the-knee skirt and blouse of modest design. My future-former husband arrived focused and unshaven.

Our relations were strained-- it was an uncomfortable day for both of us-- but we handled the administrative loose ends with civility and purpose. Then, just like on TV, we stood up from opposite sides of the courtroom aisle and moved through a thigh-high, darkly varnished swinging gate, taking our seats at separate long tables in front of Judge Sarbito. A uniformed bailiff stood waiting down below him, as well a court secretary and a box of Kleenex. All the other cases had cleared out long ago; the judge had mercifully saved ours for last. Aside from my attorney-- my ex had fired his a few days before-- it was just our cozy little group. No friends, no family, just us. You could say it was the opposite of our big, festive wedding. You could say it was a lot of things.

Judge Sarbito was a calm, reasoned man with an excellent command of the room and a well-honed, dry sense of humor. I was glad he was assigned to us. He'd been a matrimonial judge for 21 years and had presided over 40,000 divorces. To say he'd seen it all was a vast understatement and I wished I could be seated next to him at a dinner party. He sat way above us, commanding us down below as would the captain of a whaling ship or a priest in a high pulpit. We sat-- unwise to speak unless spoken to-- and listened to his schpiel with the same rapt attention as we had our minister all those years ago. He asked us questions-- first my ex then me-- which we answered simply and with gravitas.

"Do you understand everything put forth in the undersigned agreement you've reached today?" the judge questioned.
"Yes," I said.
"And have you signed the agreement in question without duress or undue pressure from any third parties?"

Ha, I wanted to say. Undue pressure? You're joking, right? My life had been a daily pressure cooker for the better part of a year. Getting divorced had been like a part time freelance job with a nightmare boss-- some would counter that it's a full time job-- which was finally coming to an end. The emotional hailstorm had taken place two years before. This last year was just an extreme administrative time-suck and bureaucratic buzz-kill; one that marred nearly every day in some unforeseen way.

"Did you get married in a church wedding in October of 2000?" Judge Sarbito asked me first.
"Yes," I answered. My throat tightened. He turned to my ex and asked him the same.
"And your marriage produce one child?"
"Yes," I squeaked and reached for a tissue.

No one told me that he would bring up my wedding day or that this exchange would look, feel and sound so much like my marriage vows. I loved my wedding day; it was wonderful and fun. Why hadn’t I arranged to go dancing tonight? Because I didn’t know how I’d feel; still don’t. The judge continued, "Do you understand that this signed agreement is a legal contract recognized by the state and that it's binding forever?"

“Yes I do, your honor,” I said, mindful that I once believed my marriage vows to be binding forever. Tears swelled and I could feel my lips pursing. As long as I could keep my lips from parting, I still maintained some control. Why didn't I ask my mom to come with me today? Where is my Sex and the City gaggle of girlfriends, sitting two rows behind me; giving me the thumbs up whenever I turn around? There would be no champagne brunch, no towels with new monograms. This was a grave day; a lone warrior day. I had gone into this marriage surrounded by friends and family and I was going out very much alone.

But the symmetry was just. Marrying him was a decision I made on my own on the morning that he presented me with a ring, just he and I. He’d asked a simple question and I answered it without counsel. Then, seven years later, I began to ask myself a whole new set of questions. Then asked him the same questions, then answered them for myself. Our marriage was dissolved just shy of ten years and I wondered if the internal Q & A would end today. It felt like it already had. I knew deep down I’d done the right thing, and that that was all that mattered. The marriage was mourned before the divorce process began. Today was a bookend, a seal.

Judge Sarbito thanked us for reaching an agreement before our trial date. Then he pronounced us—by the power vested in him in the state of New Jersey—divorced. It was a truly surreal and singular moment, much like the moment I was pronounced married. But today I felt deeply saddened by the triumph, like the moment a loved one in pain finally dies.

My ex held the varnished gates open for my attorney and me to walk through and I felt proud of us for getting to this point without major operatic incident. We'd both come so far; had accomplished so much together, even in divorcing. (The minor incidents were too many to count.) Out in the lobby I looked at his face for a signal that might cue me to move toward him for a handshake or a hug, but there was no trace, so I stayed still. I knew I would see him tomorrow night for his Wednesday dinner with our son, and every Wednesday for eleven years after that. There was a somber finality to our fresh start and tomorrow would be the first day of the rest of our separate lives together.

I felt crushed by the prospect of starting over and exhausted just thinking about square one as I left the large, beige, government-issue courthouse. But outside the sun was shining and I became lighter as I walked to the parking garage. I smiled brightly as I greeted the nice, older African gentleman in the crisp white shirt at the podium. I wished I had something to show off the way a newly engaged woman shows off her ring to strangers. He was the first person I was meeting as a newly unmarried woman and I felt different; sort of new and set free. I wanted to tell him my story like someone who’d just seen a UFO. I’d just come from this strange, unique experience and was willing to buy him lunch in exchange for listening but I knew he was only after my ticket, and that my story would have to keep for now. I handed it over and wondered if he noticed my plain, empty ring finger; unadorned with diamonds and bands. My hands were still just as important and it hadn’t mattered what I was wearing that day. My fingers weren’t empty or naked. In fact they felt alive and very awake.