Please don’t congratulate me on my divorce becoming final . . . not today.   I got that sheet of paper from my attorney back in February.   I’m released from the bonds of matrimony.  So . . . what?!!!   I’m self-employed.  To me, then, my divorce becoming final means that I now have to pick up the tab for my health insurance.   It’s a pretty substantial monthly payment.   So I’m not woo-hoo–ing on my new-found legal freedom.   Perhaps in the long run, in the future, or in a galaxy far, far away, it will be good for me to break these financial ties . . . but now?  . . . Now it means I’ve got to do the “find” dance.  Find the money, find a way to earn more money, find a way to bring in more money by any means, find a way to spend less money — dance.   Tired of that dance.   And the damn kids continue to eat — every freakin’ day!!!   Can I revert back to breastfeeding to free up some money so that I can keep going to the doctor?  Guess not.  Gotta find another way.

Part of me really wanted to have a woo-hoo, throw my hat up in the air like Mary Tyler Moore, Sex and the City Girlfriends night out kind of moment when the nasty divorce was finally final.  But it turns out? (as Carrie would say) I don’t feel much like celebrating.   Maybe if I were Amy Irving (Ex Mrs. Spielberg), or Linda Hamilton (Ex Mrs. James “Titanic” Cameron)  or one of the Trump wives or Mrs. Tiger Woods . . . maybe then I’d be happy and could celebrate on my way to Rodeo Drive.   But my divorce settlement only brings me freedom to pay another monthly bill, retroactively, to the date the Ex ran to his HR department to inform them of the final divorce decree that allowed him to cut off my benefits.

I delayed it, but today I log-on to transfer my car fund money (money I was saving  to replace the 13-year-old car I currently drive)  to my checking account so that I can make a  huge payment just to bring my health insurance up to date.   (I’m not even dealing with how I’m going to pay the monthly bill going forward.)   Consequently, . . .  I just don’t  feel like  woo-hoo-ing, and please don’t congratulate me on my divorce . . . not today, anyway.

Just Me With . . . my freedom and my checkbook.