jacobsdeception

And so it is done. Today I wrote the final page in a chapter of my life that has lasted for ten years. The dissolution complete, the ties succinctly severed, the marriage has finally come to an end.

Tuesday:

I lay there on my couch as dusk sets in, panting and wheezing, clutching my inhaler. A quick stop at the gym to work out a few muscles turned into a two-mile run on the treadmill attempting to clear my head and release some aggression. For most people this would be perfectly acceptable; however, being born with the wretched affliction of asthma I find such activity to be tedious and painful. The saliva turns to sludge in my mouth while my lungs burn from the exertion and I think to myself "Damn, I need a fucking cigarette". Several beads of sweat on my forehead conspire as one and join together to lazily drip down my face.

It's about this time that my roommate enters our domicile after a long, hard, backbreaking day at the video store. He's carrying a bag, paper, from which he pulls a pounder of Bud as if it were a rabbit plucked from his top-hat. His face full of cheer and self-satisfaction from his magical feat, he offers this wonder of yeast and hops to me knowing of my love affair with frosty beverages. The fact that I had quit 'the sauce' two days before seems to be but a fleeting excuse as I half decline the offer yet still hold out my hand in acceptance. A twist of the cap releases that familiar hissing noise of carbon dioxide escaping its prison and the first sip goes down like butter. We look at each other, smile, and nod our mutual heterosexual approval. Who cares about breathing when you can drink!?

As the evening puttered along I went from a mildly ambivalent doggy-paddle of drinking to a full on swimmingly drunk. It was then that I decided that I had best get my clothes in order for the following day so as I don't follow the same routine of rushing around at the last minute to get out of the house and showing up late and unshaven. Into the kitchen I sauntered, with beer and iron in hand, ready to tackle the daunting task of pressing my own clothes (a skill which has yet to be mastered by my hands). Plugged in and warming up I head off in search of what to wear. Tomorrow would be a big day, the last day of my former life so I had best make sure to dress for the occasion. Also, my wife would be attending the joyous event so I most certainly wouldn't be upstaged by that depressingly fashionless soon-to-be-divorce. Black on black it is, after all we are celebrating a death here ladies and gentlemen.

Allow me to make a brief interjection as I inform you that ironing anything while you are three sheets to the wind, particularly if you are already unskilled in such domestic undertakings, is a bad idea. At one point I was actually putting more creases in my slacks than I was removing and I burned myself on at least two separate occasions. One silk tie was also unceremoniously discarded after a small incident involving a beer and the cat.

One and one half hours later, the slacks, tie, shirt, vest, and jacket are all ironed and hanging nicely in my room. I sit back down alone in the living room with my final glass of Harvey's Bristol Cream and watch the episode of Full Metal Alchemist I had recorded earlier. I decided that life wasn't so bad and there are worse things in life than getting divorced as I sipped the remaining bit of sherry and then hit the sheets.