Yesterday I dropped off the last of the paperwork at my lawyer's office. Gathering my financial life into an excel file was surprisingly difficult. Emotionally, I mean. Of course I put it off, wouldn't you? For one, the financial news wasn't good, and for two, turning in that paperwork meant I was pushing forward a process that I don't want to support in any way. But once I got the summons, continuing the procrastination would be like standing on the tracks and just letting the train run you over. The train you want to be on has left the station.
Paperwork in general ranks pretty low on my list of fun things to do with a Saturday afternoon. Financial paperwork pushes it down a few notches. Factor in that it's about a divorce, my divorce, and it sinks to the very bottom. In the end I took off pretty much two full days of work, but I got it done. And when I did, I felt surprisingly relieved. Something about seeing all those numbers neatly printed on a clean page made this whole thing (the divorce, my financial life, my broken heart) feel almost manageable. I stacked up the pages, his and hers credit reports, wage stubs, budgets, my check for the hefty retainer, and clamped it. It felt weighty.
After my classes I drove across town in the rain to deliver my package to my lawyer. She has a lovely office, elegant with big windows and high ceilings, fresh flowers and polished tables. I wish I could retain her under different circumstances. She is a pretty positive person, and seems to have a holistic view of divorce. My initial consultation was not just about paperwork, but about how I'm going to go on from here. We drank tea and talked about various parts of my life, so that I found myself forgetting for moments at a time, the purpose for my visit. I told J later how helpful it was to talk with her. "Careful," he cautioned. "That's a pretty expensive counseling session."
Usually when I go in, an aide comes out to greet me. Yesterday, my attorney seemed to be alone in the office, writing at a table. I handed her my stack of papers. "Good," she said, more business-like than I had seen her. "We'll file Monday." I had to get back to campus, so I just went back to the truck without really feeling that. I mean, Monday already? Some part of me still hopes for the eleventh hour pardon, but each paper stamped "FILED" squelches that hope.
Paperwork in general ranks pretty low on my list of fun things to do with a Saturday afternoon. Financial paperwork pushes it down a few notches. Factor in that it's about a divorce, my divorce, and it sinks to the very bottom. In the end I took off pretty much two full days of work, but I got it done. And when I did, I felt surprisingly relieved. Something about seeing all those numbers neatly printed on a clean page made this whole thing (the divorce, my financial life, my broken heart) feel almost manageable. I stacked up the pages, his and hers credit reports, wage stubs, budgets, my check for the hefty retainer, and clamped it. It felt weighty.
After my classes I drove across town in the rain to deliver my package to my lawyer. She has a lovely office, elegant with big windows and high ceilings, fresh flowers and polished tables. I wish I could retain her under different circumstances. She is a pretty positive person, and seems to have a holistic view of divorce. My initial consultation was not just about paperwork, but about how I'm going to go on from here. We drank tea and talked about various parts of my life, so that I found myself forgetting for moments at a time, the purpose for my visit. I told J later how helpful it was to talk with her. "Careful," he cautioned. "That's a pretty expensive counseling session."
Usually when I go in, an aide comes out to greet me. Yesterday, my attorney seemed to be alone in the office, writing at a table. I handed her my stack of papers. "Good," she said, more business-like than I had seen her. "We'll file Monday." I had to get back to campus, so I just went back to the truck without really feeling that. I mean, Monday already? Some part of me still hopes for the eleventh hour pardon, but each paper stamped "FILED" squelches that hope.
