The ultimate bad timing

By Fern McFarland

After almost two decades, I took the plunge and decided to dissolve my marriage. Divorce papers filed, rental home secured, ready to go. Here I was, midlife, ready to embark on a new horizon of joy and passion and independence. I was finally, as my therapist likes to remind me, going to get my needs met.

So in March, on Friday the 13th, I moved out of my family’s house into a posh little rental on a very trendy street, ready to begin my newfound single life. And then I received word that my colleagues and I were to work from home indefinitely in an effort to stave off an inevitable pandemic. For the past year, my job was the one consistent, joyous routine in my life. Not to worry (I told myself), this will give me more free time to find myself, right?

However, the only thing I found myself with was a pack of cheese sticks and White Claw in my new refrigerator and a ton of alone time on my hands. Turns out stocking a new home during a pandemic is pretty tricky. The grocery looked apocalyptic — it took me three tries to find rice, beans, pasta, and eggs. Again, I told myself not to worry. I can still walk up to the plethora of restaurants on my new street and find refuge in my gym and yoga studio…then they closed too. No food. No gym. No therapist. No bars, restaurants, or social gatherings. Hmmmm, perfect timing to “get myself out there.”

So here I am: healthy, single, jobless, and eager for adventure. A walking Thelma & Louise in a time of mandated social distancing. Is this some cruel joke the universe is playing on me? My resiliency and sense of humor are seriously being tested. Hell, I know everyone is being tested right now. But you have to admit that divorce in a time of quarantine is extra ironic. I would cry about it, but I’m rationing my toilet paper.