Today I weeded my own personal garden.
I think you know what I mean.
In the summer, when it’s hot, and a visit to the pool could happen at any time, I have to keep things tended.
A little shaving cream, a razor, and then some moisturizer.
I didn’t used to do this so often. I was young, feminist, and having babies. Half of the previous years I couldn’t even see my overgrown bush due to my burgeoning pregnant belly. One time I had to ask Zach to trim it. He only did that once.
But now I’m getting older, and my kids are forcing me into bathing suits more often.
A year ago, I didn’t leave the house looking disheveled exactly, but I did the best I could.
Now, when I leave the house for any place, including the pool, I think: who might see me? Hey, is that cute guy chasing his toddler a single dad to my single mom?
Could he be the DILF to my MILF?
Shit, no, there’s his wedding band. Sigh. Of course.
There are many consequences to getting divorced: tighter budget, loneliness, no one to haul in the mulch bags, and knowing that every single mess is, indeed, my responsibility.
But today I miss the comfort of allowing my pubic hair to grow slightly astray, poking out of my suit, because I know I am married and loved and safe, no matter how overgrown things get. After all we’d been through, my spouse certainly didn’t care one way or another. Whether because he was laid back or just drunk, I’ll never know.
But now, close to divorced? Every spare strand counts.
It’s exhausting. And itchy.