The price of freedom
Des Moines, Iowa – 22 September 2008
Roger, my insufferable and finally ex-husband,
Don’t worry, I’m only writing to tell you how pleased and happy I am to be a free woman again: free of a man that childish infatuation or need (if you prefer) transformed into an irritating companion for 11 years, 2 months, 4 days, 8 hours and 23 minutes. The calculation is accurate. It starts with my irresponsible “I do” in the Evangelical Church on Nichols Road in Kansas City and ends when the sound of Federal Judge John Morelli’s gavel brought me back to the land of the living and I could legally get rid of that ridiculous name of “Mrs. Wheezeman”.
Let’s go back a few years, Roger. Let’s go back to when you and I, truly the ugliest kids in all of Bowie High School in Kansas City, went the prom together (neither of us had any alternatives) and, in the most classic of American traditions, lost our virginity in the backseat of your father’s car. You throwing up on my dress helped make it one of the worst nights of my life.
You’re right when you say that nothing happens in Des Moines, just like nothing happens in the rest of Iowa, the home of farmers so shrewd that not even your cleverness could pull the wool over their eyes (the way you usually do) by trying to sell them those investment funds with seemingly miraculous returns. Nevertheless, once every four years we bask in our moment of glory. After all, the presidential race is launched right here. But then the spotlights in the big top are turned off and time once again flows slowly and with reassuring everyday monotony.
Best regards from your now-happy ex-wife,