Chapter Eleven: The Miracle at the Tanning Salon

It is a marvel that I don’t have ten children.

Because I am such a mother hen.

Other people’s sadness almost puts me over the edge. I just want to scoop up the whole world and in one fell swoop put an end to war, murderous tyranny and all other things awful described in detail daily on the nightly news. (I once tried to boycott the news, but my high school civics teacher must have slipped my class the equivalent of the blue pill in the Matrix because I am absolutely incapable of apathy when it comes to current events. I dream of sweet ignorant bliss. Those lucky Democrats . . . I digress).

Mostly in my little life I try to dismantle any negativity I encounter by being a crazy nut who talks a mile a minute and makes jokes at extremely inappropriate times. I am not exactly sure it is working very well but it’s pretty much all I got in my “first aid kit” for dealing with life.

Apparently except when it comes to one topic: divorce. I am like the divorce sniper. The divorce SWAT team. The divorce paratrooper! If I stumble across someone going through a divorce right now, I am the first one on the scene to radio for help, stop the bleeding, and call in for more back up if necessary.

Case in point: My tanning lady.

So here I am, doing something I have not done in fifteen years. I am at a tanning salon. And I am not sure exactly why. I am anti-wrinkle, anti-aging, and anti-old. In other words, I do all things humanly possible to convince the world that I gave birth to my first child at the age of eight. (She’s almost fourteen, so that would make me 22.) So how I decided this was a good idea I am not sure. It was probably the day I looked in the mirror and a corpse looked back. And if the Mayan calendar is correct, the world is ending in four years anyway so how wrinkled can I get between now and 2012, that’s what I would like to know?

So here I am, plopping down cold hard cash so I can look hot in the short term and hideous in the long term, when the lady selling me my tanning package reluctantly reveals that she knows me. We met three months ago at a mutual friend’s house.

“And you are getting divorced, right?”

“Yepperooni! Signed sealed and delivered as of December!” I enthusiastically confirm, inappropriate humor totally hanging out for the whole world to see.

“Me too.” She solemnly admits.

In three minutes flat I hear a story so sad and awful I am almost near tears! And in two minutes flat I am behind her desk frantically writing the names of books that she should read immediately. Books about children and divorce, scripture and divorce, making it through a divorce and even dating and divorce (hey, life goes on!) I am writing like a maniac and talking a mile a minute at the same time. I tell her about a scripture based group session at a local church that she simply must attend, and all the while, she is gazing at me like I am her new best friend.

She scribbles down her cell phone number on a card and we promise to have coffee. Right after she spends a small fortune at Barnes and Noble.

I leave the tanning salon and realize just how huge Divorce Land is. The magnitude of it is overwhelming sometimes, and I am just one soul who honestly, has no idea what she is doing most days.

But I realize that probably the greatest gift I have in this life is to learn from everything I encounter. And for me right now that is the experience of divorce. And if I would just sit still and stop talking and stop trying to make jokes about everything, I just might find an opportunity or two to swoop at least part of the world up into my arms and take away some of the sadness.

One divorced tanning lady at a time.