I remember the first Friday I was officially separated, Marvin had moved out all of his things, my mother was gone, and I was alone. I went to the Chinese place near me to get yet another of my heart-healthy low-sodium dinners I so enjoy.
There's this 1950s strip mall near my house--it was the first strip mall built in my city and yay! The invention of strip malls! Don't let the momentum of THAT let up. And although it has the scariest 1950s-we-are-not-remotely-prepared-for-the-2000s-traffic parking lot, I like to get the Chinese food there. Mostly because it's nearby.
That should be their slogan. China World--We're Nearby.
At any rate, that first Friday of my aloneness last spring, I was waiting for my order and I noticed the entire place was filled with women standing around waiting for their orders. "Oh my God," I thought. "Is this what divorced women do? Order Chinese to go on Friday nights?" I was so disoriented. It was all so new.
It's been seven months now and I have a little routine. Every fourth week I go to that 1950s strip mall and get waxed at the spa, there. Not at the Chinese food place, you mo. At the SPA. The SPA. It's a nice spa.
And I'd just like to mention that I dutifully get my girl parts waxed, in breathless anticipation that at some point in the next four weeks I will be falling passionately in love and be ripping off my clothes, and the object of my affection will think, "My, what well-groomed girl parts June has" and yet four weeks later the waxer has to get a giant push broom to sweep off the crickets and tumbleweeds and old men rocking on my porch, there.
Honestly, I feel like invoicing Dick Whitman and Daniel Boone and The Fireman for the lack of play. Forty dollars those waxes cost me every four weeks. Could y'all pool your funds, please? Thank you. Hi, Dick Whitman's mom.
Anyway, I also get my brows and giant Wilford Brimley mustache waxed, and then I head over to the Chinese place for a little post-waxing delectable. I mean, SOME Fridays I cannot do the food part--I remember dashing off to a date with Dick Whitman after and hoping he didn't notice the angry red marks on my lip.
But last night I'm sitting there, on the window seat they thoughtfully provide for people waiting for their orders, and I was terribly involved in removing the Edsel fur from my coat. ONE WEEK it's been cold enough to have my winter coat out and already it's covered in fur.
I wasn't even looking up and I knew he'd walked in. I don't know how I knew. But I did.
There was Marvin.
In his plaid shirt and his crossy legs. He always stands with his legs crossed. I don't know how he does that without falling over. It's almost like he's in tree pose, if you know your yoga.
After a minute he turned around, probably because he felt someone staring at him with waxy parts. "Oh, hello. I'm getting triple noodles," he said.
"You're gonna LOOK like a triple noodle if you keep getting that stuff," I said smugly, hoping the guy wouldn't pick that moment to scream out that my double order of fried cream cheese crab rangoons was ready.
"Why are you in MY territory?" I said, sounding like a Jet.
"I was in the music store next door," said Marvin, and I know you all just fell over in a dead faint.
We chatted while our food was being prepared by indifferent Asians, and we giggled about things, because we always did. Finally his triple noodles were ready.
"I guess I'll see you later," said my husband.
"Peace be with you," I said, shaking his hand. The first year we were married, I dragged Marvin to Christmas Eve services, and as Jew he had (a) never gone and (b) never shook hands and done "peace be with you." So he kept saying "same to you" until I heard him and hissed "AND ALSO WITH YOU!" at him, mortified.
"And also with you," said Marvin. And then he left.
My smooth girl parts and I went home, ready to show themselves off should the opportunity arise.
