Instead of a blog, I just want you to know that Abraham calls the auto repair shop “The Car Restaurant”.

And here’s this picture that brought me joy:

When you start making your own decisions as an adult it makes you appreciate how much easier your life was when other people just made the right decisions for you. Or when your life was reduced to a class schedule and packed lunches. No thinking required, and if something went wrong you could just blame the person who made the decision.

But, if you’re me (and a lot of you are in one sense or another), you realize that you’re still often run by other people’s decisions even though they had no intention of deciding for you. This can be something simple as how to hold your fork or something as huge as how you choose a mate.

Here’s an example. When I was 25 I worked at an elementary school in California. I became very good friends with the librarian at the school. We worked together all year, and also during the summers. I loved her, respected her, and just generally enjoyed being in her company. One day she said to me, “Argh! Someone dog-eared this page. DOG-EARED! You never never NEVER dog-ear a book. It’s destructive!” I remember agreeing with her that it was a terrible thing to do to a book.
I also remember that I never dog-eared a book again. Even if I really wanted to remember a page, or didn’t have a book mark, I would never dog-ear a page. EVEN IF THEY WERE MY BOOKS THAT I PURCHASED AND OWNED AND HAD NO INTENTION OF GIVING TO ANYONE ELSE, I wouldn’t dog-ear them. An adult in my life made a decision, and I regressed into childhood in order to abide by that decision, come hell or high water.
It was only last week that I was reading a book a dear friend sent to me that I sat, frustrated that I couldn’t dog-ear a page I wanted to remember. And suddenly it occurred to me. This is my book. Mine. I can do whatever the hell I want to this book. Just because my friend, a librarian, one time long ago told me she didn’t think people should dog-ear books, it doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to make my own grown up decisions my own damn books! (And did she even mean for me to take it that seriously ANYWAY?!)

The name of the book I’m reading, Dear Sugar, is a compilation of advice columns written by Cheryl Strayed. It is incredibly raw and honest, and in one entry she referred to the different planets we live on. I’m paraphrasing and changing planet names in case you decide to read it because it’s so. damn. good. But basically her advice column said, “You, my friend, are living on Planet I Just Got Divorced and your friend is on Planet Earth. It’s hard for your friend to relate to you right now because they’re on a different Planet than you are. And eventually when you get back to Planet Earth, your relationships will begin to take new shape. But until then, find other members of Planet I Just Got Divorced to relate to. It’s the only way to survive it.”

After I read that entry, I realized my friend lived on Planet Librarian. Other friends of mine live on Planet Traffic Makes me Angry or on Planet I Don’t Eat Leftovers. We’ve all got lots of Planets we inhabit and just because someone on one Planet tells you how things are meant to be on that Planet doesn’t mean you have to do it…especially when you’re (ahem) a freaking grown up. Other opinions won’t necessarily ever be your opinions because they’re based on different Planets, different life experiences. I cannot make choices based on the lives they’ve led. I have to make decisions based on the life I’ve led. If I make mistakes, they’re mine. And I’ll fix them. 

So I did it. I dog-eared it. I dog-eared the page about people’s Planets. Maybe when I’m 40 I will be fervently disagree with dog-earing. But right now, I dog-ear. Damnit, I dog-ear.

I live on Planet Dog Ear.

This picture is way too dramatic, but I liked the quote.

I have this nasty tendency to live in the future. I’m not a huge dweller on the past, although I am guilty of it, but I’m way better at forecasting all the horrible things that might happen and then concerning myself with preparing for them. I tell myself to stay in the present, but I have an awesome brain that creates all kinds of amazing thoughts about the WhatIfs that I sometimes choose to believe. And, of course, these thoughts are all fear-based. I never have a WhatIf thought that sounds like, “What if I win the lottery and I’m forced into a lap of luxury and devote all of my time to volunteering?!”

“Fear is the cheapest room in the house. I’d like to see you in better living conditions.” – Hafiz

I heard this quote today and I decided on a new mantra. Fear is cheap. It’s the cheap way out. Sure, I can blame all of my anxiety on the pretend fears that may or may not materialize. I can take an anxiety pill every time I anticipate a difficult situation. But why?! Why blame and pop pills? I’ll tell you why. Because no one teaches us how to process thoughts and emotions. There’s no class on it. It’s not something most people consciously do, so they can’t really teach by example. No one shows us how to just be with ourselves, right now, where we are. Which to me sounds incredibly boring, but I’m pretty sure it’s the key to peace.

“My mind is like a bad neighborhood. I try not to go there alone.” – Annie Lamott

That quote is the truth. It’s not that my brain is boring. It’s that my brain is terrifying, full of ideas that could absolutely destroy me. It’s circulating old stories, old truths, bad messages from the past that we were taught or that we absorbed from our caregivers. And most of the time, we believe them. At least I do. They infiltrate my every decision.
Should I take the leap?
Probably not, I’m not good enough.
Should I tell that person how I feel?
Probably not, I’m not worthy of being loved.
Should I give it a try?
Probably not, I can’t do it.
They’re not real, though. They’re opinions from my judging mind. They’re fairytales from the past I don’t have to believe anymore. Fear is cheap. I can choose to live in peace by simply thanking my judging mind for its opinion and moving on.

(Isn’t that last part adorable? Because it’s just that easy…)

Does this work everyday? Nope. Plenty of days I live inside a tornado of self-doubt and unworthiness. Most days, actually. But, as Jack Kornfield said, “We, as human beings, have the amazing ability to be reborn at breakfast.” So I get up, and I try again. I wake up in the present, I drift into the future by lunch, I’m panicked by dinner time, and I go to sleep remembering that I can try again at breakfast. Sooner or later, with practice, I’ll get better at being with myself in the here in now. I’ll wake up before breakfast and make it all the way through lunch without completely panicking about pretend things that might or might not happen. (Or I’ll just go back to having wine for breakfast. I think that worked. I can’t remember.)

While Mr. Nussbam gave his obligatory introduction about why he was qualified to teach this class, I looked around the room. Every walk of life was here and we all had one thing in common: our marriages had failed or ended, and we had children. As the first lesson began, I listened as each of the 35 or so people participated in conversation.

1. The Crier – She brought tissues. She sniffled the entire time. Her voice quivered. You could tell getting divorced wasn’t her idea.
2. The Pissed Ones – Rolling their eyes, muttering “asshole” or “bitch”, letting out loud snorts when the teacher read anything aloud.
3. The “Still Married” Ones – Couples. They seemed like any other normal married couples, except they were in a divorce class. I wondered if their relationships were similar to mine and my ex’s, or if they were putting on a show.
4. The No-Idea-What’s-Going-On Ones – There were about 6 of them. I’m not sure they realized what the class about. They looked around doe-eyed when the teacher asked a question. Shell-shocked.
5. The What’s-The-Point? Ones – They talked about sports during the breaks. They talked about how to do their hair. They drew pictures while the teacher was talking or whispered to their neighbors. They loved break-time. They got snacks a lot.
6. The Know-It-All – You couldn’t tell her anything. She knew more than you. Also, this isn’t her first divorce.
7. The Sleeper – Self-explanatory.
8. The Desperate – There were 4 or 5 people whose spouses had taken their children and ran. This was the most heartbreaking. Whether out of the city or out of the state, these people were desperately trying to get their children back. One man hadn’t seen his daughter in 4 months. His wife took her and ran when she was only 4 weeks old.
9. The Type-A – She was next to me. And I guess, to a certain extent, she was me, too. Note-taking, head nodding, and carefully following along.
10. The Cute One – He was the cute one.

Together, the 35 of us learned about the law. We learned that we shouldn’t bad-mouth our exes in front of the kids. We learned we should give our exes plenty of opportunity to spend time with his/her kids. We learned kids feel sad when they’re put in the middle of divorces. We learned both parents have an equal right to be a parent to their child if they aren’t a harm-risk. So, I mean, you’re saying I SHOULDN’T steal my kid from school and take him to Disney World without telling his father and then tell my kid that his father is a liar and told me he would never let my kid go to Disney World so I had no choice but to kidnap him and take him?! We basically learned everything Dr. Phil says about divorce/children and, frankly, I would have preferred watching 5 hours of Dr. Phil. Not to mention the people in the class who didn’t already know this incredibly obvious stuff weren’t listening anyway.

On our first break, I went to the snack machine to get some peanuts. The security guard followed me because I was clearly a threat. I turned and smiled at him to charm him off my tail, but he didn’t smile back. That’s ok, though. Because in front of me was The Cute One. He was really cute. He was fumbling with the snack machine, pressing buttons and staring at it, waiting for a snack to fall out. Finally, some Peanut M&Ms fell out. He turned to go and saw me. “Ha. Oh, hey. That machine…um…it’s not. I didn’t pick these. They just randomly fell out. I didn’t pick…do you want these?”
“No thank you,” I smiled.
“Ok. Just be careful because it doesn’t give you what you want.” He moved to the soda machine to choose a soda while I fiddled with the buttons until something fell out: peanuts. Fine, I thought. “Peanuts?” he asked me.
“Yeah. I guess that’ll work!” I smiled. He smiled. WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING RIGHT NOW?! I CANNOT FLIRT WITH THE CUTE ONE DURING DIVORCE CLASS!
We awkwardly walked back into class, completely unable to make casual conversation because
A. Neither of us were divorced yet and probably felt weird starting up a conversation while we were still in purgatory.
B. What were we going to talk about? Our divorces?
C. The only questions I could think to ask (So, are you married? Do you have kids) were already answered by the fact that he was IN THIS CLASS.

I spent the rest of the class daydreaming about what it would be like if I ended up marrying The Cute One and we told the story at our wedding of how we met in Divorce Class. Long story short, I took my sweet time gathering up my things once the class was finally over in case he wanted to ask me for my number. I mean, I don’t know how to do this anymore. Do I just give it to him? Do I ask him if he wants it? DO I STOP TRYING TO HIT ON GUYS IN MY DIVORCE CLASS?!

I walked to my car feeling a myriad of emotions. I was sad. I was angry. I was mentally exhausted. I was defeated. I was a loser. And all I wanted was a dirty martini, but I didn’t have any vodka. This part of my life was over, and now I had one of the final pieces of paperwork I needed to prove it. What a strange drive home that was.

P.S. If you happen to be The Cute One and you’re reading this blog, call me. ‘Cuz I know you’re single.

As two people with a child getting divorced in the state of Florida, we were required to take a “Children of Divorce” class. We were permitted to attend the class together, which I really wanted to do so that we could be the example of the consummate divorcing couple to satisfy my ongoing need for perfectionism, but that would have required getting a babysitter. Seeing as how it cost each of us $40 to take this stupid, required class, we didn’t want to add insult to injury by tossing in an extra $60 for someone to put our Child of Divorce to bed.

I pulled up to the building around 5:00pm. Somewhere inside I would be trapped for 5 hours listening to someone drone on about how I shouldn’t tell my child to throw a tantrum everytime he’s around his father so that his father will give up all custody (because people actually do that). I began approaching different entrances trying to figure out where the hell I was meant to go. A sign or something would have been nice.
Once I finally found the correct entrance, a man held the door open for me.
“Thanks so much,” I said, nervously, wondering if he was also here for divorce class and whether or not he was as nervous as I was.
Apparently he couldn’t hear my thoughts because he just said, “No problem.”
The lobby was full of people, all of whom (I assumed) were there for the class. Half looked miserable, half looked relieved. ALL looked annoyed. We sat quietly, unsure of whether or not we should be talking about the fact that we were all getting divorced or making small talk, or just feeling badly about ourselves for being a part of this particular group of people.
“Hello ladies and gentlemen!!” A short, black security offer stepped to the center of the room, commanding attention with her booming voice and huge smile. “I’m assuming y’all are here for the class, and I’d like to direct your attention this hallway. Y’all are going to line up in here with your IDs out. Once you get signed in, you’ll enter the classroom on your right. There’s coffee and snacks for y’all to help yourself. Once you’re inside, you don’t leave unless you want to take this class again, and I promise you, you don’t. Now then,” she waved her arm up over her head, “come on, y’all! We’re here to have a good time! This’ll be fun!”
She was just so chipper for this situation, I had to giggle.
I stood in the line quietly between two women, also quiet. All of us felt fairly embarrassed, I think. Then I saw a man up ahead of me. He was cute. Should I think a guy in my Divorce Class is cute? Probably not.
The classroom was laid out in a U-shape, with an aisle down the center and a project screen pulled down in the front. After signing in I found a seat near the front of the class, because that’s how I roll, and I pulled a notebook out of my purse. I’m not sure what I thought I’d be taking notes on, but it was a class. I should be taking notes on something, right?!
Another woman, probably in her mid-forties with colorful jewelry and an orange Vera Bradley bag, approached the chair next to me. “Is this seat taken?” she asked, as if I was waiting to meet a friend.
“No. You’re welcome to it,” I smiled.
“Oh, good. I just want to get this over with. I have so much to do. I have 4 kids and a husband who does nothing. I’m getting rid of that problem.”
“Yeah. Ha,” I said, wanting to relate but not being able to.
The cute man sat a few seats down from me. He was still cute.
Across from me sat a woman, probably my age. I could tell she was just angry. She sat with her long stringy hair curling around her shoulders, which were tense, with her arms folded across her chest. She just stared forward. Mad.
A man and a woman sat down behind me, chatting and snipping at each other every now and again. I listened to them.
“You know they have to go to school tomorrow…” she said.
“I told them they didn’t have to. It’s one of those teacher conference days where they do nothing but sit in the gym,” he replied, casually.
“Gordon, I told them they had to go!” she snipped quietly.
“Well, what do I do about it now? They don’t do anything but sit on their phones. They can do that at home.”
She let out a big sigh.
A guy with lots of tattoos sat down, and another guy in a black, polyester shirt with a gold earring next to him across the U from me. A few large black men sat uncomfortably in the back. Another couple, both in Navy sweats, sat down together in the corner.
“I can’t believe this class is 5 hours long,” the woman next to me heaved.
“I know. It’s long,” I agreed.
“Maybe if I had some help at home it wouldn’t be such a big deal,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said, not really sure if I should try and agree with her even though it wouldn’t be true or if I should just leave it at that.
A short, jewish-looking man walked in and stood near the front of the classroom near a tall, older blonde woman. They chatted quietly. I assumed they were the teachers. A security guard walked past the door to the classroom, peering in as though to remind us all that he was watching.
“Good evening, everyone! I am Robert Nussbam. I am a counselor and a social worker and Sheila and I will be leading this class tonight. I know a lot of you are here against your will, and a lot of you are here to just get it over with. We are going to make this as painless as possible…”
“Is the class really going to be 5 hours long?” someone interrupted.
“Yes,” he spun to make eye contact, “it is. The state of Florida requires 5 hours.” The security guard walked past the door again. It was starting to feel like prison. So, it was a really comfortable experience so far…