I play it safe. I do the speed limit. I pay bills on time, and if there’s a remote chance of rain, I bring a jacket. See where I’m going with this?
Okay, I’ll keep going.
I’m careful with my heart. I’ve only ever loved one man, and I don’t trust easily.
Where’d that get me?
In the middle of a nasty divorce. And the only ever loving one man? Probably a lie on my part.
Do you notice the woman behind the wheel of her silver over-priced Sienna minivan stuck behind an old lady doing 25 in a 45?
At first glance, you probably already have a few assumptions as to the type of person I am, given I just told you how straightlaced I am. I’ll tell you what though, after a brutal three months, I’m starting fresh and looking forward to the road ahead. That’s what anyone in my position is supposed to say, isn’t it? Ha. Let me tell you something, that’s bullshit!
I’m pissed and bitter, and you know what makes this even worse? Having to drive around this small town with a fake smile and pretending I’m not an emotional, unstable mess inside because of what my husband did to me. The only plus in this scenario, I do love my iced coffee, but I regress. Where was I? Oh right, recharging and the road ahead. Figuratively and literally.
As I return from my long Labor Day weekend with my wild “I’m letting loose because I have a toddler at home” cousin and a fresh start in mind, I glance in the rearview mirror and catch a glimpse of myself. I look different now, don’t I? I chopped my hair to about my shoulders, the “long mom bob” as Hollywood refers to it, and bleached it because Austin used to love my hair dark and long. I’m all about passive aggressive ways to throw a big fuck you his way.
You’re wondering who Austin is, aren’t you? Don’t worry. Unfortunately, I’ll get to that lying sack of dog shit later.
Also. . . while I’m on my “I’m not following anyone’s rules anymore kick,” I’m looking at life for what it is. I don’t know what that is yet, but it starts with no rules. No expectations on life or love, or parenting. Sometimes it’s okay to be a bad mom, right?
Don’t worry, I’m not turning into Mila Kunis in Bad Moms, I’m just done with rules. So this is the recharged me.
But then again, has anything besides my shorter, lighter hair changed? I’m still newly separated, single mother of twin eight-year-old boys, an aspiring cat lady, getting a divorce—from the lying sack of dog shit—jobless, and friendless.
I guess I’m not completely friendless. I have Tori, that cousin I told you about. . . but my best friend, the girl I’d throw myself in front of a bullet for, she fucked my husband.
I know what you’re thinking. What kind of best friend sleeps with your husband?
Brie Baker is who. I’m all for sharing things like jeans, or hell, borrow my car if you want. It probably has four-year-old french fries under the seats but have at it.What I don’t share is my husband’s cock. Brie apparently didn’t get the message in time.And then your second thought is probably who cheats on their wife with her best friend? Austin Jacob is who. He spews bullshit for a living. He’s an attorney with his father’s law firm. Though he’s a tax lawyer, he’s still a liar as far as I’m concerned.
My life is kind of like Cinderella, except for instead of having an evil stepmother, I married an evil man. Wait, crap, is that Sleeping Beauty? No. . . maybe it’s Belle from Beauty and the Beast? No. That can’t be right. I’ve got my fairy tales confused. In my defense, I have boys so I don’t read these. Which one was the princess rescued by a dragon who turned out to be a prince?
What am I talking about? I wasn’t rescued by a prince. I fell into the arms of the wolf.
That’s it! I’m Little Red Riding Hood.
Anyway, that was three months ago when I left the wolf, and I’ve come to the self-realization that I’m better off without a husband who is dog shit and a best friend who’s a lying whore.
Now that you have the backstory, take another look at me. I’m driving to school for my boys’ first day of second grade.
Austin had them for Labor Day weekend, and I can’t wait to see their tiny little faces this morning. I’m also incredibly curious to see what he dressed the boys in for their first day of school and praying they at least have stainless clothes on. With boys, it’s hard to say.
It’s the thought of Austin having them for the weekend that sends me into a fit of emotional “I might be clinically insane” rage. You ask any newly separated mother what’s the worst part about divorce, and she’ll more than likely tell you not being able to see her kids every day.
You ask a man and 50 percent will probably tell you, bitch be takin’ all my money.
Our priorities are clearly different.
Beep. Beep. Beep. “Incoming text from Austin,” my Bluetooth chimes in over my stereo.
I know it’s illegal to text and drive, but I still pick up my phone in the center console to check his message myself.
Austin: I’m at the school with the boys and Brie. Where ya at?
Of course he mentions her! My throat tightens and my heart thuds in my ears. It’s like it’s being stabbed to death by his infidelity and texts that always include her now. It’s like. . . I’ve been replaced after giving him nearly twelve years of my life and two kids for the newer, longer-legged less stretch-marked version.
Tossing the phone in the passenger seat, I know I should answer him, but just as I’m about to, guess whose house I pass by on Lake Country Road?
Brie Baker’s. My ex-best friend.
Something inside me snaps like a rubber band on my heart. A reminder of why all this still hurts. Her. She did this. She destroyed perfection. Okay, perfection might be a loose term here, kinda like Brie’s ability to keep her legs closed, but you get my point, right?
She fucked me and our friendship over.
Guess whose car is parked out front of her house on the quiet dead-end? Brie’s. Okay, maybe I wasn’t just passing by. I clearly made the turn onto her street.
Thousands of scenarios come to mind when my eyes narrow in on her red mustang. Mostly the ones of them in the backseat of her car, where the first infidelity took place, according to Austin. And how two grown adults even fit in the backseat of a mustang is beyond me.
That thought, one in a thousand, is the one that has me stopping my minivan in the middle of the road, opening the back hatch of said minivan and pulling out a T-ball bat. Not the greatest weapon of choice, but it’ll work.
I’m sure you can guess what happens next, yes? Have you heard that song by Carrie Underwood “Before He Cheats?” My reaction is something similar to those lyrics. Only it wasn’t before he cheated.
With the bat in hand, I take out her headlights, mirrors, and then the windshield. I’m actually impressed with how well I swing a bat for being out of practice.
I may or may not have keyed the word “Whore” into the hood. I don’t remember. In my fit of morning rage, I act on adrenaline and don’t recall everything I do in the three minutes it takes me to do it.
I do, however, take a moment to admire my handiwork and the old man out watering his lawn wearing his wife’s bathrobe, smiling at me. “What are you looking at?”
When did I turn into such a bitch?
The man shrugs. “Nothing.”
At least he didn’t call the police.
A few minutes later, I’m back on the road, crying, and attempting to make it to the school in the next fifteen minutes and not wreck my van in the process.
Now take a look at me. Red-faced, heart still pounding, glass on my floor mats, and wondering if I can go to jail for what I just did. What the fuck was I thinking?
This is what betrayal does to your mental state of mind. Makes you batshit crazy.
Literally.