I‘ve been divorced twice, something that puts shocking pauses into your life.
Former wives stay inside you to varying degrees. Here are my two ex’s. The photos show how they looked when they were with me. Both now are in their mid-60s.
The first was Ginger. We met in Spanish class at what is now the University of New Orleans. She was 19, and I was 21. That’s too young to get married, and we lasted five years.
I was the one who called it quits.
She came from a poor background in the backwoods of South Louisiana. She now has a graduate degree, and a more appropriate husband to whom she’s been married for many years. They live in New Orleans.
After Ginger, I flew solo for about five years. It was during that period that I lived on two occasions in San Juan, Puerto Rico, and learned to fly small airplanes.
And drink too much. And haul-ass on big motorcycles.
The second was Julie. We met at a party in the French Quarter of New Orleans. I arrived at the fiesta with a snoot-full and two beautiful babes, one on each arm.
In spite of that questionable introduction, we eventually lived together for a bit over eight years before marrying for another ten.
Julie was the oldest of ten children in a tumultuous Catholic family in St. Louis. She had moved to New Orleans with her first husband, whom she later dumped. I should have noted that.
After almost 19 years together, she dumped me too, so I have been both the giver and receiver of divorces. The smasher and the smashee.
Julie resolutely refused to go to college. I never understood quite why. One of her sisters is a doctor. Through our time together, while I mostly supported us, she was often pursuing business ventures, which never panned out.
She also became a self-taught computer whiz, and that’s how she made her way, successfully it seems, after we split up. I believe she still lives in the Houston home we bought in 1986, which I handed her as a Valentine gift the year after we divorced.
She has not remarried that I know of, and she has no children.