My life is weird, but I like it.

It was a completely unanticipated thought; I mean, I was under no compunction to think it. It just happened, which makes me think it must be true.

I have a few homes. One in PA and one in NYC. I have a few things. Mostly musical instruments, clothes, and shoes. But I have a lot of people whom I love. This balance is just fine with me.

I got to see my ACL friends tonight. We laughed and talked and told each other we were pregnant. Well, okay–so one lovely friend told the rest of us she was pregnant. Amazing.

Also something that’s amazing? Two very dear friends of mine pulled me aside tonight. They had an earnest look to their faces as they told me they had something they’ve been meaning to ask me. I listened as, together, they said that they’d like me to officiate their wedding ceremony next year–and what would I think of this?

Now you don’t get much more special in terms of people than these two. I love both of them very much. I told them I’d be honored. And nervous…but more than anything: honored. I also told them that my parents, being ministers, do weddings all the time, and would probably let me borrow their fancy folders they use. Which is hilarious. Who cares about fancy folders when two of your dearly loved friends just asked you to marry them?! Apparently me, folks; apparently me.

I also said that, considering there are three ordained ministers in my immediate family–and I am not one of them!–I certainly thought I’d be one of the last ones in my family to do this sort of thing.

Which, incidentally, is also what my brother said about me when I got a divorce.

Like I said, my life is strange, but I like it.

This week I am teaching a dance and theater camp and working exclusively with six to nine year olds. They are adorable with their recently acquired grown-up teeth that have not yet quite settled and so still seem too big for their little mouths. And man do they get tired. But their dances are not even that hard! I know cause I am the one choreographing them. I mean, I am making them use some pretty sweet little benches as props and they do have to carry them around like all day every day (read: for about 15 seconds at a time, max!), but don’t worry. Cause these benches are tiny. And very light. And these kids are just fine, though very good at pretending to be “so tired, Miss Jessica!”

And it’s amazing how they have not learned to keep secrets. They’ve barely learned to be embarrassed. We were rehearsing yesterday; they were all piled on those little white benches, when one little girl just announced to the world that her parents are getting a divorce.

At which point another girl asked what a divorce is.

Silence.

Being the resident expert, I stepped in and explained that it’s when a married couple decides not to be a couple anymore. I tried to act nonchalant about it, for the sake of the girl whose parents had just decided this. It’s not a nonchalant thing, not at all, but on my watch, I didn’t mind if this girl has a little more time innocently believing that maybe it is.

And then the girl said that it’s pretty cool, though, because her mom’s gonna have another baby. Oh great! I said. Oh shoot! I thought. How sad. And then the girl said that her parents’ couldn’t afford two houses, with this new baby coming and all, so they all still lived in one house and I said, Oh, well that’s something! And I thought about how weird that would be.

Divorcing somebody doesn’t really mean that you wouldn’t mind still living with that person. I mean it’s a pretty strong statement. About the strongest one you could make in terms of setting boundaries. And you don’t usually make that kind of statement to another person and then don’t mind them seeing you in just your towel as you flit from the bathroom to the bedroom.

Another little girl finally asked when these parents are getting this divorce. But with her little-girl accent, it sounded more like divoice. And so, with a little bit of laughter, the girl corrected her, saying, It’s divorce, not divoice! And it already happened!

And that was that.

And I thought it was sad but look, another sad thing that is just somebody’s new normal. That happens a lot in this world, I guess.

Oh, and now I have to share with you a wonderful and vast mistake I made the other day. I was at a party. A party full of church-goers and I know what you’re thinking: WILD. And I don’t want to make anyone feel uncomfortable or anything, but well, badminton did happen. And not just once, either.

Anyway.

A friend of mine was asking me if I wanted to go on a midnight swim in a creek. I said sure because duh! who doesn’t? But then it quickly escalated to talks of skinny dipping and does this really shock you? I already mentioned the badminton! And I didn’t want to admit this, but all of this conversation was taking place while I was actually in the act of playing badminton. So I was talking quite loudly, being on the other side of the court and all.

And that’s when I mentioned that I had never actually been skinny dipping. Oh, but I remembered something so I had to amend it by saying, Well, okay. So I’ve done some organized skinny dipping, I guess.

Huh? Was basically the general response to that, so I went on to explain that while I was in South Korea and Japan, I visited the public baths there and yes, everyone bathes completely naked.

But then I tried to put all fears and judgy feelings to rest by loudly proclaiming, But don’t worry–it was COMPLETELY coed.

And then there was a pause while nobody said a word and I thought to myself that I was glad I explained it so as to leave no room for misunderstanding.

But then I remembered something about the word coed actually meaning well, COED. LIKE GUYS AND GIRLS TOGETHER. Ohhhhhh. So I was like, wait! Does coed mean both sexes? Cause I meant it was NOT coed. I might have been confusing by saying the exact opposite of what I meant, you know.

And then everyone started cracking up laughing and we even took a tiny break from badminton (I wish I could say that it was at that point that we finally stopped that dismal behavior, but alas, we continued for quite some time). We kept quoting Don’t worry guys, it was COMPLETELY coed! to each other because how dumb! And how opposite of what I meant!

And how very glad I am that I explained myself after explaining myself.

And so when she walked into the kitchen tonight and found me still baking cookies–after I had started hours before–she quoted Monica.

I need a plan. A plan to get over my man. A jam plan.

And then proceeded to tell me that what Monica did right after that announcement was make jam. A whole heck of a lot of jam. Enough jam to fill the Delaware River, should it ever run dry.

Now a cookie plan doesn’t sound nearly as catchy, but I suppose it’ll do for now. And my friend, after hearing that I was up to making cookies again, texted me to please save him one.

And after giving the batches and batches of cookies a long hard look,

apparently, this is my plan.

I assured him that I could save him twenty.

And two other things that stand out today.

My friend Christian went with me to the courthouse. You know, to file. We walked in and I didn’t know where to go. I also felt pretty stupid holding the best and the worst in my hand–my marriage certificate and the petition for divorce papers–with not even a folder to make it seem more presentable.

Or more hide-able.

I was clutching onto the papers the way a kindergartner holds their homework, all sticky fingers gripping tightly around the loose leaves; there were even a few little grease spots on the papers from when my mom had made me a grilled cheese sandwich and I was eating while handling them.

And since we were walking into a courthouse, it was serious business. We had to go through a security checkpoint and anything that wasn’t on my body had to go on a little conveyor belt with an X-ray machine. So I hesitantly just plopped all those papers down.

And I watched them as they separated.

The divorce papers slid out of view quite easily, but the marriage certificate, that was a fighter. It kept getting stuck on the strips of fabric and not quite making it to be X-rayed. And I just stood there watching, feeling like the world was in stop-time and I was destined to look upon my marriage certificate in limbo on that stupid conveyor belt forever.

I was also embarrassed, for some reason. I guess because no marriage certificate should ever be treated that way; it’s a sacred thing, and here it was being treated  as a common piece of paper with no value at all.

But honestly, it’s not the first time my marriage has been treated that way.

I finally got the papers back in my possession. We walked up to a man who must have heard the phrase, Where do I go to file for divorce? about a million times, but still, it was the first time I had to ask the question and really, the words felt awful. Just awful. I started the sentence okay, but when I got to the word file I dropped my volume and by the time I had to say divorce it was like a dirty little whisper.

He told me where to go and so we headed that way.

By the time we got up to the lady behind the desk, we had been standing for a bit. Talking. Smiling, even. And so I thought it was actually pretty funny when she asked Christian if he was the person I was divorcing. If I didn’t laugh then, I certainly laughed later, because how strange to be talking and jovial while standing in line with the person you are divorcing.

And then maybe the weirdest and most horrible thing was when she casually handed me a price list on a xerox copy. It was listed just like you’d see the lunch items listed in your elementary school cafeteria. You know, like:

Milk…………………………….$1.00

But only, it was this:

Divorce……………………….$160.00

And I was just standing there, holding that flimsy copy, looking at it.

I wanted to cry at the tragedy and laugh at the pure ridiculousness of it. I wanted to object to paying anybody money for something that I never wanted. But instead I grabbed it and stuck it with all the other papers that are just as absurd, just as official.

But I didn’t say anything because sometimes there just aren’t any words.

It’s enough to make me curse.

The other day I had a friend over. He wanted to look at some papers on my desk but these weren’t just any papers: they were the papers I was using to meticulously hide my divorce papers. And so when he nonchalantly reached to grab them, I jumped.

I jumped like I was a starving child and he was trying to take my last piece of bread. It was weird and out of character and he looked at me like it was weird and out of character, but neither of us said a word.

The truth is I was embarrassed.

I didn’t want him to see what I was hiding, but an even greater truth is that the entire world is going to be seeing what I’ve been hiding.

Because it’s real.

I sang at a funeral a few weeks ago and ran into someone I haven’t seen in a few years. The conversation was casual and eventually got to Drew as she asked me how he’s doing. Trying to give nothing away, I apparently failed miserably because right after I said, He’s…okay…with no fewer or no more words than just those two, she abruptly asked, Are you guys still together?

And it took my breath away. But not in the way that most ballads mean, not even close.

Nor did I know how to recover.

So I said the party line that has since become old. We’re going through a hard time. He’s made bad choices and we’re separated.

And then she said that was too bad. She said it like I told her my old Aunt who last I checked was 108 had just died peacefully in her sleep. She said it with distant compassion.Then she mentioned someone else we both knew, a mutual friend, who had just gotten a divorce too.

She said too and the importance of that word was not lost on me.

I hadn’t even mentioned divorce and now a friend of ours had just gotten one too.

I wasn’t ready for that conversation. And I sure as heck wasn’t ready for commentary on the fact that I was a gaping wound who had managed to put on a dress and sing Ave Maria that morning. I wasn’t ready to tell people that I was bleeding from the jugular and then be offered a band-aid and a pat on the back.

You better believe that my response to the question, How’s Drew? got a lot better when I was asked the same thing at the reception for the funeral. I actually may have overcompensated, to be honest, because as soon as I heard the words I answered loudly. Cheerfully. Like there’s nothing I’d rather be talking about then how Drew is doing.

Oh, he’s great!!!!! I said.

But then when this woman asked me where he’s working, my oscar winning performance lost the oscar. I couldn’t for the life of me remember where he was working. Not even the city he worked in.

As I was deliberating, taking too much time to answer such a normal question, my friend Christian jumped in like a champ.

He’s doing the sleep tech thing in Dover, he said with a smile.

Yes! I said. In Dover! He’s working in Dover!!!! And I am pretty sure I sounded like I was one stop from the loony bin.

Well, maybe I am, actually.

The thing is, I just don’t always know quite what to say. The truth is a start, but how much of the truth? And do I really want to get into it? All the time and everywhere?

No, I don’t.

Not at the gym. Not when someone I haven’t seen for years asks me how Drew’s doing, if we’re still in Newark. I’m on the bike and the last thing I want to be doing is communicating that I am going through a divorce, that what seemed like one of the couples who would definitely make it is now definitely not making it. That I am a cliche just like all the others. That I might as well have had a reality show called The Newlyweds and then made a country album that flopped. And the fact that my name is also Jessica? Well, perfect.

So I don’t tell him.  And I don’t know, maybe that is wrong, but I don’t know how to do this at all, least of all perfectly.

And while the man at the bank today was fumbling through my divorce papers, trying to figure them out and then notarize them, he apologetically explained, I’ve never been married .

To which I said, Well, I’ve never been divorced.

Which is the truth.

And I have no idea whatsoever what I am doing.

And it sucks to be attaching stupid papers to your heartache; as if the facts of our marriage, the details of our intertwined lives could ever encompass who we’ve been and who we are now. And how trite that this thing that is negating us could give me a paper cut.

But God, this is real, and I will feel my way through the dark until somebody turns on the light.

I just hope that happens soon.