I’m tired as all hell.
But are any of those reasons stopping me from wearing a revenge dress and heels that I have no business wearing? Absolutely the fuck not.
Why? Oh, because I’m finally fucking divorced.
“To freedom!”
“To no more bad sex!”
“To divorce!”
“You’ll never have to ask me twice to cheer to that toast,” my best friend Shelby says as she holds up her shot glass. “To your new chapter in life. One with fun, hope, and without his tiny fucking dick.”
“To big dicks!” This comes from my other best friend, Hannah, who, bless her heart, hasn’t drank since giving birth to her two-year-old. My girl has been hammered all weekend from two drinks.
“To all of that,” I say as we clink our shot glasses together and throw back the vodka. Sure, the kids these days might think that green tea shots are the way to go, but millennial women know the true way to get fucked up is a lemon drop.
They never miss.
“I still can’t believe it finally happened,” Hannah says as I take a sip of my vodka soda.
“Emphasis on finally,” Shelby adds.
“Same here,” I say. And that’s not an understatement.
Because after two years of negotiation and mediation, and a year before that when I knew our marriage was over because the man I thought I was spending the rest of my life with was cheating on me with his secretary, I’mfinallyfucking divorced.
Never in a million years did I think that it would’ve taken twenty-two months of mediation. Then again, I never thought my ex-husband would keep insisting that I owed him money in spousal support—yes, the doctor who makes six figures a year was telling me, a former accountant turned bakery manager—that I owed him alimony. The back and forth was taking forever. Thank goodness we didn’t have children, because I can only imagine what the fight would’ve been like if child support had to be figured out.
I knew it wasn’t going to be an easy divorce, because Justin had turned into a slimy excuse for a man after thirteen years of marriage, and I’d had it. But no one was more fed up than Shelby LeBlanc. My best friend flew in from Las Vegas and plopped her ass in the chair in the waiting room of the mediator’s office so she was the first thing he saw when he walked in and he had to look at her, or clearly look away from her, with every step he took into the conference room where we were meeting. She didn’t say a thing. She just stared at him, giving a look that could kill. I watched him swallow a bullfrog in his throat multiple times.
Justin had been scared of Shelby since we started dating in high school—which I get. Most people in our school were. She didn’t back down from anyone. She let everyone—and that didn’t exclude teachers, administrators, or asshole parents—know what she thought of them and didn’t mince words. She also wasn’t afraid to use her golf club as a weapon if needed. A boy cheated on Hannah our sophomore year, and his car window became intimately familiar with her seven-iron.
Justin also likely remembers that Shelby’s great-aunt makes no secret of her love for all things voodoo.
Sometimes I love being from Louisiana.
Apparently Shelby’s mere presence—and his knowledge that she can hit a golf ball nearly three hundred yards—was all that was needed, because that was the last mediation session we had. We finally divided the assets: I was awarded the alimony I was seeking, I let him have the house because it wasn’t worth it for me to fight him on that, and, most importantly, every tie we had together was officially severed.
I’m now officially single for the first time since I was in high school. I’ve taken my maiden name back. And now, a month later, I’m celebrating that freedom with my two best friends during a weekend that has been dubbed the official kickoff of Gabi 2.0.
“I still wish I could’ve seen Justin’s face when he saw Shelby there,” Hannah muses. “I bet the man pissed himself.”
“It was the gulp heard ‘round Nashville,” Shelby says. “Never in a million years did he think I’d be there. God, I love fucking with mediocre men.”
“I saw a shirt the other day that said, ‘I could be meaner.’ I almost got it for you.”
I laugh as Shelby’s jaw drops. “You didn’t? Come on, Hannah! At least find me the link because that sounds fucking perfect.”
I laugh at my two best friends, wondering how kindergarten me got so lucky to have these women in my life. Especially because as we grew older, we’ve realized that we are nothing alike. We sometimes joke that if we met now, no way we’d be friends. But there’s something to be said about friendships that have withstood the test of time, heartbreaks, and bad fashion trends.
Please God never let me see a pair of low-rise jeans ever again. And if you ever see me going out in a business casual look, tell me to go home.
Hannah is our prim and proper southern belle. I don’t think she wore pants to school until sixth grade. The amount of dresses that were in her closet growing up rivaled a major department store. She’s now a stay-at-home mom and loves every minute of raising a family in our Louisiana hometown.
Shelby was, and in many ways still is, our tomboy. She’s one of the top-ranked American professional women’s golfers in the world, bringing in a purse two years ago just shy of two million dollars before having to sit out last season with a shoulder injury. Because of her status, and having to do some red carpets, her tomboy ways have settled. Mostly. She still bitches when she has to wear a dress. Even tonight, when we declared that we were going out with a bang in Vegas, that meant sleek pants and a halter neckline blouse.
And then there’s me. The head cheerleader who dated the captain of the football team. Member of National Honor Society and volunteer at the children’s hospital. Homecoming queen and student body president. Graduated in the top ten of my class and followed said captain of the football team to Vanderbilt for college. I mean, how else were the high school sweethearts supposed to live happily ever after?
