He had dropped me off in front of a restaurant, prior to finding a parking spot. As I crossed in front of the car, he pulled forward, happily smiling back over his left shoulder at some random fascinating bit (a sign with an interesting font, a new scaffolding, a diner that he may or may not have eaten at the week after he graduated from college), and plowed into me. The impact, while not wondrous enough to break bodies 12 ways, was sufficient to bounce me sidewise onto the hood, legs waving in the air like antennae, skirt flung somewhere up around my ears.
For one whole second, New York City stood stock-still and looked at my underwear.
As I pounded the windshield with my fist and shouted -- "Will, Will, stop the car!" -- he finally faced forward, blink, blink, blink, trying, yes, truly trying to take it all in. And I heard him ask with mild astonishment, very faintly because windshield glass is surprisingly thick, "What are you doing here?"
The rasping sound you may hear is not the hurricane rattling windows and doors. It's me busting a gut. Hubby sounds a lot like Bertie Wooster from the Wodehouse books...
Other than that, the article seems to be... I dunno. A divorce is like a juice diet? Obviously not a thing I've tried, but it does appear to me, after the horrendous episodes that seem to typify divorces (stealing/trashing the others' stuff, killing each other, allegations of child abuse), that it's a bit more serious than that.
Guess I'm not missing much by avoiding the Oprah magazine.
