A few years ago, as I was standing on the soccer field sidelines watching The Kid do his magic, a mom I marginally knew through The Kid¿s various sports started chatting.
It was the usual meaningless sideline chitchat ¿ ¿How have you been?¿ ¿Good, and you?¿ ¿ but then it switched to either something more genuine or, perhaps, voyeuristic.
¿What¿s it like to be single?¿ ¿ a valid question since I was still a relatively newbie divorcee.
And so I shared a little of the ups and downs of my new life as a cliche ¿ 40-something divorced Marin mom. But, as I started telling her what was going on, I realized there was more up than down. And it was true; I was past the point of figuring out ¿Who am I now?¿ ¿ which consumed a good year of my life, a celibate year, BTW, which was necessary but still sucked ¿ and onto the next phase, which included Boy Toys followed by lots of dating and safe but raunchy sex with guys other than the one whose boxers I washed for 15 years.
If you could forget the financial struggles and the uber-exhausting work-home balance thing, I was having fun.
¿I envy you,¿ she said.
Envy me? What in the world was there to envy? I wondered.
Then, for whatever reason, the conversation moved to a different level ¿ a confessional level. She and her husband were struggling ¿ what married couple isn¿t? ¿ and she was turned off by sex. Well, that¿s not exactly true. She was absolutely interested in sex; she confessed some pretty freaky sexual fantasies that even had me blushing, so it wasn¿t as if she¿d suddenly turned frigid. She wanted to be ravaged in real life as she was in her dreams ¿ just not by her husband.