My Biggest Secret

As the end drew closer I would come to reduce the past four years into sound bites.

"I was young. He's still young."

"We grew apart."

"Irreconcilable differences."

Which one I use depends on the reaction most likely to get the other party to move along as quickly as possible.

I have to call the situation and the person just right though. The right response to the wrong person with too much time or inclination on their hands and I run the risk of them asking just the right follow-up question to learn the truth: I never loved him.

That is not the answer people expect when they express condolescences over a happily-ever-after that died too young. It is not a rallying cry for girlfriends to cheer as they mix another pink martini.

It is an ugly truth that, much like cigar smoke, isn't content with making just the smoker stink.

I really never loved him.

The morning of our wedding I overslept as I would on any other morning. It was finally the call of breakfast, not premarital nerves, that roused my from my dreamless slumber. I looked at the dress bought off the rack more for convenience than style and could only muster anxiousness over not having the right pantyhose.

I was not a blushing bride.

Neither was I a nervous bride or a hopeful bride or, even, much of a bride at all. I was just a woman facing down the reality of being the only single girlfriend left.

At 25 years old I never would have imagined that one day being the last one standing would be a fate worse than death, but as each year passed and New Year's Eve parties ended earlier with friends rushing home to new homes and babies, the message was delivered: single equaled failure.

But, see, I do not do failure. Failure is for people who had to pay to go to college. Failure is for girls who let their emotions cloud their judgment. I may be a great many things but a failure I am not. Or, that was the thinking.

So I did what I do. I assessed the situation, did field research and executed my plan.