When I go out to brunch, I’m a divorcée.
When I eat my second post-breakfast snack, I’m divorced.
The divorcée in me buys the houseplants. The divorced woman kills them all.
When I consider adopting a Persian cat, I’m a divorcée.
When I clean my child’s lizard terrarium, I’m divorced.
If I’m crying at a foreign film, I’m a divorcée.
If I’m crying on my therapist’s floor, I’m divorced.
Champagne, bourbon, and herbal teas. These are my divorcée beverages.
When I steal all the La Croix out of the fridge at work to save $4.99, that’s divorced behavior.
When I’m wearing a lacy, matching underwear set, I’m a divorcée.
When I’m wearing frayed underwear of unknown provenance that was left in the laundromat dryer seven years ago, I’m divorced.
I graciously accept a monthly parenting honorarium when I identify as a divorcée.
I get child support when I’m feeling divorced.
If I say “I’ve taken a lover,” in that moment, I’m a divorcée.
When I’m divorced, I say, “I met some guy on Hinge. I think he’s in finance?”
As a divorcée, I’m making sure my vaccinations are up to date, possibly for exotic travel.
As a divorced woman, I’m waiting in line at Walgreens for a flu shot before the winter diseases tear through the second grade like the plague.
When I volunteered to direct my child’s school play, I was a divorcée.
When I was ousted for trying to unionize the children into an actor’s guild, I was divorced.
As a divorcée, it’s important to me to have diversified assets.
As a divorced woman, I think I just fell for a crypto scam from some guy I met on Hinge.
The divorcée joined a book club.
The divorced woman joined a coven.
On the days I’m a divorcée, I take a meditative nature walk for my mental health and clarity.
On my divorced days, I disappear into the woods for hours and hope the moss reclaims me.
When I upgraded my bedding to the finest money could buy, I was a divorcée.
When I upgraded my vibrator to the finest money could buy, I was divorced.
The divorcée wears elbow-length gloves and a feather boa.
The divorced woman also wears these things, but it’s because I’m spending my non-custody weekend cleaning out the garage, and I’ve reached the Halloween decorations.
The divorcée has proper representation by someone who identifies as “esquire” and might have a pocket watch.
The divorced woman is frantically calling her lawyer to see if funds converted into crypto are actually irretrievable.
If I’ve taken a microdose, I’m a divorcée.
If I’ve taken Pepto-Bismol, I’m divorced.
I was a divorcée when I shocked my neighbors by welcoming a scandalously young man into my home in the evening.
It was the divorced woman who actually hired a TaskRabbit for $130 to unclog my shower drain due to stress-related hair loss.
As a divorcée, I use fancy words like “amicable” and “co-parent.”
As a divorced woman, I respond to questions about my divorce with a prolonged high-pitched hissing sound in lieu of speech.
The divorcée side of me reads novels and periodicals in an armchair with a Persian cat and herbal tea.
The divorced woman is still logged into the crypto guy’s Netflix account and is about to binge Love Is Blind with an iguana.
