Part 4 (1/2)

18. Burst into song in public like you're the star of a musical, and get at least one other person, a stranger, to sing along.

19. Sleep outside overnight.

20. Get drunk!

21. Swing on the swings at a playground.

22. Go into a department store and make a divorce registry.

23. Mail out divorce announcements.

24. Make out with a stranger.

25. Volunteer at a homeless shelter.

26. Host a party and serve at least ten recipes you've never made before.

27. Drive around in your car until you find someone who is jogging and then follow the person while blasting the song ”The Final Countdown” by Europe. (Just kidding about this one. But if you do it, please make sure you get it on video).

Wow. That was quite a list. Some things were disgusting (peeing in the shower gross). Some things sounded kind of fun, like skinny dipping. I could probably play in the rain and nap in a park without a problem. But there were some that really pushed my boundaries. Going commando under a miniskirt! Was.h.i.+ng a car in a bikini! Bursting into song like I'm on Glee! Those things took guts guts I didn't have. I may have had such guts about ten years ago, but while my literal gut got bigger, my proverbial gut seemed to disappear.

I was starting to realize what Allison meant when she said I needed to act like my old self again. She had a point. And Hope had been right-on with her Cooper's Beach a.s.sessment. It sucked that it took so long for them to get through to me, but I couldn't dwell on time wasted. All I could do now was look forward. I was ready to be fun and happy again, even if it meant peeing on myself.

CHAPTER SIX.

I called Allison when the plane landed so she could head over from the waiting lot to pick me up. All I had on me was my carry-on and large purse/tote so I was able to skip the luggage area and walk right out the door into the beautiful, warm, sunny day.

The pa.s.senger pick-up lane was a no-bulls.h.i.+t, hurry-the-f.u.c.k-up kind of place that's heavily enforced by big bouncer-type security guards. For that reason, there wasn't any time for squeals and hugs when Allison pulled up. I ran to the back of her minivan and saw the decals on the back gla.s.s; a stick-figure family of five, plus one stick-dog and two stick-cats and what looked like a stick-hamster or possibly rat. I popped open the hatchback, threw in my as-big-as-the-airlines-allow carry-on and hopped in the front seat in a matter of about two seconds. She pulled away before I even had my seatbelt on. Then she squealed.

You know that sentimental saying about how you know you have a great friend when you can go months or even years without speaking and as soon as you see each other again it's like no time has pa.s.sed at all? That's Allison and me. There's never any stiff handshakes or awkward silences between us. There's no reason for me to pretend around her either. She is not impressed with money or anything that it can buy.

Allison hasn't changed much since I left. It has been over ten years since I lived in Michigan full-time and, while I felt twenty years older, she never seemed to age a day. With her naturally blonde hair in a messy ponytail (not the fake-messy look that takes an hour to achieve, but the actual I-don't-give-a-c.r.a.p ponytail which still managed to look just as good as the premeditated kind), and her hot pink sweatpants and white v-neck t-s.h.i.+rt, she was the same laid back, low-maintenance girl I'd known all my life. In New York, people spend so much time trying to achieve the look of someone who doesn't care, but in Michigan, and with Allison especially, it's genuine. She really doesn't care. And it's not in an arrogant way, either. She just thinks, or I guess I should say, she knows, there's more to life than designer jeans.

After spending the better part of a decade trying to keep up with the Joneses, Allison was just what I needed to rehabilitate. I was ready to take a whole gla.s.s of her nonchalance and pour it all over me.

”The kids wanted to skip school today,” she said. ”Since school's almost over and they haven't missed very much this year I said it was okay.” She said it in a whisper, like someone outside the vehicle might overhear and call CPS about the neglectful mom in the minivan who let her kids skip school just to pick someone up at the airport. ”They're so excited to see you. We all are.”

I kind of got that idea by the way the van was bouncing up and down from all of the excited antics going on in the back. The kids Kayla, 12; Kenzie, 10; and Drew, 9 all said hi to me and acted excited to see me for a good minute before their ”normalness” kicked in. This included yelling, whining, physical abuse, arguing, kicks to the back of my seat and that really annoying game kids play where they repeat everything a person says. Ugh, it's bad enough with one kid playing, but three at one time was the closest to torture I'd ever known. It was even worse than that Geology cla.s.s I'd taken at UNC for an Earth Science credit. By the time we made it to Ann Arbor I couldn't wait to bust out of the van. I was happy be back in their lives full-time, but I was going to have to start with part-time doses.

”We'll be hanging out in the backyard all day, and we're gonna grill some steaks and ribs for dinner,” Allison said. ”We'd love for you to come over, but I know you're probably anxious to get settled in.”

”Yeah,” I said, sounding less than enthused as she pulled into the driveway of my childhood home. ”I should probably go in and get this part over with.”

She nodded and gave me a sympathetic smile. She totally got me. Hope is a great NYC friend to me, but there's really nothing like a friend since childhood who knows every version of you. Allison knew the smart me, the silly me, the adventurous me, the married me ... and she loved all of them unconditionally. It's good to have someone who knows every important event in my life, the good and the bad, the triumphs and heartaches, the bad decisions and great times and just ... everything ”Call if you change your mind. I'll come get you,” she said.

”A barbeque sounds good,” I said, truthfully. Caleb and I never cooked on a grill at home. Unless you counted the George Foreman. ”Come get me before you start cooking.”

”Great! I'll see you tonight then. Invite the guys, too, if you want. It can be like a welcome home party!”

I hopped out of the minivan, grabbed my bag from the back and waved goodbye as Allison and her clan pulled away. Then I turned around and looked at the house I grew up in.

After our dinner in Southampton Thursday night, I had gone back to our hotel and called Adam to find out if he'd rented out the third bedroom yet. See, my dad, who had been a science professor at the University of Michigan for like, ever, had seen some research that made him believe he and my mom would live longer, healthier and happier lives if they moved to a warmer climate. At least that was the excuse they'd given to us. It could just be that they wanted to live in the suns.h.i.+ne on the ocean, and I can't blame them for that. Either way, three years ago my dad gave up his tenure at U of M and transferred to a school in Fort Myers, Florida.

They were very happy there. Dad said the school was a lot more casual than U of M. He taught his cla.s.ses in Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian print s.h.i.+rts and spent his weekends fis.h.i.+ng and golfing. My mom had started yoga cla.s.ses and met with a group of senior women several times a week to play Just Dance on Xbox Kinect. It's funny because they are in their fifties and aren't even old enough to qualify for some senior discounts, but they're already fully embracing the lifestyle. Maybe that's just the cycle of life. When you're younger, you want to be older. When you get around my age, you want to be younger. And apparently when you are their age, you're in a rush for your AARP members.h.i.+p.

Since the housing market in Michigan had been so c.r.a.ppy lately, and my parents didn't want to lose a b.u.t.t load of money by selling their house for dirt cheap, my brother, Adam, agreed to move in and handle the mortgage until the market picked up. Since Adam is a third-year surgical resident with an alarming amount of student loans to pay off, he can't afford to make the mortgage payments on his own. What's a guy to do in that situation? Rent out the other two bedrooms. In Ann Arbor, there is always someone looking to rent a room and they were willing to pay a nice amount, too, especially since the house was so close to campus.

I knew that one of his roommates had just graduated and moved out a few weeks ago so this divorce really came at a perfect time. Adam thought it was a great idea for me for move back and, compared to NYC, the rent was cheap enough that I'd be able to cover a whole year's worth, plus utilities, with my 401k settlement. And I'd still have some left over for a used car.

I intended to get a job to save up enough money to start grad school next fall. Not this fall, but next fall, over a year from now. I'd done my research and gotten some information on the MSW programs at every university within fifty miles of Ann Arbor. And guess what you're supposed to apply for those things a year in advance. I missed the deadlines by a long shot. But I didn't let that get me down. I would just register for some Continuing Education cla.s.ses in the fall to freshen up my smarts a little. Or not. Whatever. I was trying hard to be carefree about this... kind of an oxymoron, huh?

I walked up the driveway and through the gate of the privacy fence to enter the backyard. Adam had hidden a key under one of the cus.h.i.+ons of the patio chairs and I found it easily. I unlocked the French-style patio doors that led to the kitchen a bit apprehensively. I hadn't been in the house since my parents had moved out because we'd spent the last few Christmases in NYC. I took a look around to see what my brother had done to the place. It was actually kind of impressive for a bunch of guys. The decor was modern and the place looked clean ... and empty. I was glad there wasn't anyone home. I kind of wanted a few minutes to settle in before I was forced into any uncomfortable reunions. No, Adam didn't make me uncomfortable he's my brother. But the other roommate was another story. A long one.

Remember Jake? The Heimlich guy? He was the other roommate. And I should probably let you know that the bubblegum disaster of a first kiss wasn't the last encounter between us.

During my junior year at UNC I fell hard and fast for a guy named Jim. He was a quiet and enigmatic kind of guy that drove me crazy in a good way. At least I thought it was a good way at the time. I was young and stupid and believed that trust was something a person was given automatically until they broke it, when really it should have been the other way around.

Jim was also a junior at UNC but he was a ”local” who lived with his parents and commuted. Once we started dating, he spent the night at my apartment with me probably three or four nights a week. He had s.p.a.ce in my closet and a toothbrush in the bathroom. We were practically living together. It was my first adult relations.h.i.+p, and I thought it would last forever.

Looking back, I've realized it was l.u.s.t and not love that made me so crazy about him. Or just plain crazy, period. I felt like I needed him, like I was an addict and he was my methadone. It was unhealthy at best, but I didn't know any better at the time. I thought all of the drama and fighting was normal. I thought I'd found something spectacular. In my head I had already planned our wedding, named our children and found us a house in Ann Arbor on a cozy cul-de-sac with a swing set and a sandbox in the backyard!

One night, during finals week, we were in my apartment. He was helping me pack for the summer and I was wondering how the heck I was going to live without him for three months and distracting myself by antic.i.p.ating lots of pa.s.sionate goodbye s.e.x during the next few days.

Instead, pa.s.sion came in the form of a pregnant chick nearly tearing my door down demanding to see her boyfriend. Long story short on the nights he wasn't with me, he wasn't sleeping at his parents' house. He was living with his girlfriend and her parents. She was eight months pregnant. And a senior in high school. And her name was Destiny. Oh, and he wasn't even a student at UNC. He'd been making up a bunch of lies about his cla.s.ses and even pretending to do homework. Truth was, he was a high-school dropout who worked as a custodian for the school and NOT in a Good Will Hunting kind of way.

I was devastated. And I was angry. But even worse, I was embarra.s.sed and ashamed and I felt like it was my fault for trusting someone without question like that. I was young and I didn't know then how cruel people could be. But I learned. And that was one lesson I wouldn't need repeated.

A few days later I drove myself home to Michigan in a rental car, and that was the beginning of the summer that will always be referred by me as The Summer of Jake and Roxie.

I got a job as a c.o.c.ktail waitress at a hip bar that was popular with the college-aged crowd. It was called The Bar, as in Raising the Bar. It was supposed to be a cla.s.sier version of a college bar. Anyway, Jake, who shared an apartment with my brother at the time, was a bartender there. Every night after my s.h.i.+ft, I would sit at the bar to count my money and Jake would pour me a drink or two and then drive me home since my parents had finally given my POS Buick to the POS graveyard.

I would go home after work, cry myself to sleep over Jim's betrayal, sleep in until past noon, mope around for a few hours and then go to work to start the cycle all over again. I was too depressed to even go shopping! I was making hundreds of dollars a night and wasn't spending a dime. It was a sad excuse for a life, and I was growing tired of it. I needed something to keep my mind off of my battered ego and wounded heart. And just like having a drink in the morning when you wake up with a hangover eases the pain for a bit, hooking up with another guy after one guy hurts you is a bit of a heart bandage. So one night, when my brother was in Cleveland for the weekend with some of his friends, I got into Jake's pick-up truck and asked him to take me to his place after work instead of mine.

”Are you fighting with your parents?” he asked curiously.

”No.” Leave it to Jake to need this spelled out for him.

”Did you leave your sheets in the was.h.i.+ng machine? I've done that before.”

”No, Jake.” I stared straight ahead through the winds.h.i.+eld and started to wonder if this was a bad idea. ”It's not that I don't want to go to my house. It's that I want to go home with you. Get it?”

”Umm ...”

”Oh jeez,” I said, exasperated. ”You're being a buzz kill. Never mind. Just take me home.”

”No. We can go to my place.”