My husband and I decided to separate a few months ago. Maybe because it was a mutual decision, or because we live in a big house with enough room for each of us to carve out some individual space, or because it was just too overwhelming to think about what to do next (Parentally! Logistically! Financially!), we did nothing for several weeks. That is, until it became clear that if we are indeed “separated,” we really should separate. At least to some greater degree.
And so it was decided. Our two daughters would remain in our home, as would we for that matter—or at least the “we” that works so well together as friends and parents. But I also would get my own place and stay there a few nights a week. This made more sense than my husband finding a separate residence because he is the one who maintains our world-weary house, and because I am the one who is gone more frequently in the evenings, either to work (I teach writing classes to adults in my community) or to socialize.
“Ideally,” I said to my husband, “All I want is a one-room studio with lots of light. I don’t even care if it has a kitchen,” I added. This last comment was tossed off in jest, but of course my husband didn’t find it funny, and I actually meant it on some level, given that I don’t like to cook. This interaction—so typical of his lack of appreciation for my “humor” and my annoying habit of turning everything into a joke—probably speaks volumes for why we’ve come to this parting.
And so the search for my place began. Just the symbolism of this forward motion (OMG! I really am going to be SINGLE!) led to the kind of stress and sleeplessness my already tired 53-year-old eyes could ill afford. And then there was the reality that the most we could pay for this additional monthly expense was around $600, which we would have to squeeze from somewhere, somehow. (“Sorry girls, but those unlimited calling plans just got a bit more limited.”)
I know in some housing markets (say Kerplunk, North Nowheresville) $600 might get you a sweet one-bedroom apartment. But in my Vermont community, I feared my options were more likely going to be the equivalent of a berth in steerage. Indeed, the first place I looked at almost made me want to stay married. The landlords, Erma and Dick, were as friendly as they’d have to be to embody such neighborly names. But the place was gloomy. Utilities weren’t included. And the previous tenant had recently died in the closet-sized bedroom.
But then, barely two weeks into my search, I saw it posted on Craigslist! Sun-filled studio apartment. Attached to the owners Cape Cod style house. Private entrance and courtyard. Full bath and kitchenette (no stove and a half-size refrigerator). And miracle of miracles, the rent, including utilities, was $600!
So anxious was I to secure this place, I actually drove my car off the road the day I met with the homeowner, landing my Prius in a ditch about a quarter mile from her house. (After we’d signed the lease her neighbor—and now my part-time neighbor, as well—chained my car to his truck and got me back on the road, with only a comment or two at my expense.)
I don’t know whether to chalk up finding this affordable, sunny studio to the grace of God, or to my best friend who advised me to stop freaking out about the future and look online, or to my own abilities as a conjurer. I had told my husband (and apparently the universe) exactly what I wanted in an apartment, and there it was, a mere twelve minutes from the home I will still share with my family, just not every day.
But here is what I do know. I know that I am incredibly lucky, and not just because, constitutionally, I tend to be a happy person. Yes, my husband and I have separated after 26 years of marriage, but we are moving toward something positive—a redefining of our partnership that will make us better people individually and together. I also know that I have never lacked for love, or self-esteem, or chocolate. And I know that I have always had something every woman needs and deserves—a room of her own. It’s just that the time had come for me to switch rooms, so to speak, and now I believe I have found the perfect one, right down to the lack of a stove.
Joni B. Cole’s fifth book, "Another Bad-Dog Book: Tales of Life, Love, and Neurotic Human Behavior," was published in September. Joni is also the author of the acclaimed book for writers and teachers, "Toxic Feedback: Helping Writers Survive and Thrive." She created the three-volume “This Day” series, including "Water Cooler Diaries: Women across America Share Their Day at Work. " Follow her on Twitter @JoniBCole.
