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CAILIN DECLARES “I DON’T WANT HIM BACK”
CAILIN
Out of all thepositions I’ve tried, this is by far the most awkward one to be caught doing in public. With both legs tucked behind my head, I’m definitely experiencing new sensations and can’t help but let out a moan. But once I realize it’s not as easy to get out of this position as it is to get into it, my moans turn to screams. And now, my sixty-five-year-old neighbor, Mrs. Sanders, is standing in front of me pointing her finger.
“Cailin, you really shouldn’t be doing yoga in this dingy basement. You’re probably inhaling mold and who knows what else. There’s a nice studio down the street. Why are you doing this here?”
Good question. I came down to the storage area of our New York City apartment building because today is moving day. To help ease my stress—and stall—I thought it would be a good idea to unroll the old yoga mat I unpacked and do a few relaxing poses. Now, Mrs. Sanders is staring at me stuck in Dwi Pada Sirsasana, a pose that is considered to be a deep, spiritual pose for achieving calmness. However, I just look like a turtle stuck on its back with its head sticking out of the shell.
I debate which pain I would rather endure. Should I continue straining my leg muscles or announce that I just became a twenty-nine-year-old, jobless divorcée?
“I find dark, damp basements the ideal place for my spiritual practice. Do you mind helping me get my leg out from behind my head?”
Mrs. Sanders shakes her head. Once both of my legs are firmly on the cold ground in front of me, I thank her.
“Now, what’s the real reason you’re down here?”
“Collin and I got divorced and I just bought an apartment back in my hometown in New Jersey. The movers are going to be here in a few hours, and I need to sort through these boxes filled with all the sentimental items I’ve collected in my life, and decide which memories I am going to keep and which ones I can set free.”
“I see. I didn’t realize you and Collin were having problems. I never heard you fight over the three years you’ve been here.”
“That’s because we hardly spoke to each other.”
I walk over to a pile of boxes and stare at the one with “wedding gown” written in thick black marker across the top. There’s no more time to choose between donating it or booking a trash the dress style divorce photo shoot, during which I would splatter it in paint. Each flick of color would unleash the pent up regret I have for staying in a stagnant marriage too long. By the end of the photoshoot, I would have forgiven myself and begun the healing part of my journey. But it’s 8 a.m. and there’s no photographer here, so I slide that box to the donate pile, next to Mrs. Sanders.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Cailin,” she says. She stresses the syllables of my name as usual to pronounce Kay-Lynn.
“Don’t be sorry. I had enough of living in a loveless marriage. In fact, I would have felt less lonely if I actually lived alone. The divorce was mutual.”
That’s all I’m going to reveal to Mrs. Sanders. If I say any more, by the time I go through the Lincoln Tunnel back to Jersey, the whole complex will be buzzing with the gossip. No one needs to know that Collin wanted out of everything—including a commitment, mortgage, and my future dreams of a house filled with children and dogs. Or that my plan up until last week was to keep the condo. But then I was abruptly fired from my job as Vice President of Publicity for a pharmaceutical company, so I decided to downsize and move closer to my family and best friend, Gemma. Don’t worry though, I’d say I’m doing good for someone who just wasted what should have been the best decade of her life married to the wrong man, lost her job, and is uprooting her life to move back to her hometown. I’ll even awkwardly smile to myself to prove it.
“Good for you, then. You’re too young to be miserable.”
“Thanks for helping me out, Mrs. Sanders. You take care.”
Fortunately, Mrs. Sanders takes that as her cue to leave. She wishes me luck and walks back upstairs to her first-floor apartment. That leaves just me and about twenty more boxes. Not all of them will fit into my new, smaller apartment. The calendar notification on my phone reminds me every hour that time is ticking and the moving company will arrive shortly to transport my belongings.
I scan the room and locate where I placed my coffee mug, which unfortunately says “Wifey” across the front. I take a sip of lukewarm black coffee, but I don’t know if caffeine is enough to fuel me for this task.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m totally ready to move on with my life, despite the phrase on my mug. Note to self: order new mugs that say something empowering like, “Stronger Than Coffee,” or “Better Not Broken,” so I can post selfies and reassure all my old high school classmates and friends of Collin, who follow me on social media and I have yet to block, that I am totally fine. If they made a mug that crammed the phrase, “Don’t Pity Me Because I’m Young And Divorced And You’re Happily Married And Having Babies. I’m Great,” onto it, I would sip to that. A girl with an empowering mug would know exactly how to tackle starting her life over from scratch.
Maybe I’m a coward, but I just don’t want to confront the girl I used to be: the creative go-getter who didn’t settle for anything less than her dreams. I let that girl down. And I know I must forgive myself before I can fly. That’s what this cleaning haul will do. I’ll free myself of any remnants holding me back from being the best version of myself moving forward.
I find a box of wedding photos. Collin and I looked great in pictures, but life together exposed the negative and we were out of focus. We could not sustain a marriage. I’m keeping these for the reminder.
I open the box which contains every diary I’ve written in since I was in second grade. When I was younger, I kept diaries with heart-shaped locks that could only be opened with keys. But as I got older, I started to sum up my days on tattered notebooks. Their edges frayed as I quickly recapped days. I was too busy living life to its fullest to stop and neatly print.
I reach in the box and pull out a purple diary, which I kept during my senior year of high school. Flipping through the pages, I stop and read an entry:
Dear Diary,
Today, Ethan met me at my locker and handed me a note. He told me not to read it until I got into class. Then, we held hands as he walked me to science. We’ve been dating for a few weeks now, but people still stare at us. Are they wondering how the school newspaper editor scored the football player? Why he’s not with a cheerleader? Or, maybe they are all rooting us on because they know we grew up together at the lake. And I’ve been crushing on him since third grade. Either way, he’s mine now. In the note, he asked if he is my favorite boyfriend. “Check yes or no,” he wrote. Well, he’s my first! So yes, I would confirm that he is my favorite boyfriend. It’s ironic how he is so cute, yet a tad bit insecure. He always teases me about my 5 Leo Hearts obsession and the photos of Jax on my walls. Gonna wait to tell him Gemma and I are going to road trip to Philly to see their show. And then, hit NYC. And of course, Jersey. A girl can never attend too many 5 Leo Hearts shows. Maybe one day, we’ll actually meet them. Or get a photo with them. Or even more dreamy, get front row seats and pulled up on stage for one of their serenades…
I smile, reflecting back on that iconic time of my life. I need to call Gemma, who answers on the first ring, as usual.
“Guess what I just found?”
“The lipstick I just spent $20 on and lost in Stella’s diaper bag?”
