Unbeknownst to most people, I am now living with one of the world’s leading experts on the show, Friends.
Seriously, if there were a university somewhere that allowed one to major in Friends, my sister Jenna would be there on a full ride.
She knows each episode inside and out; it’s her bedtime story and her wake up call.

And so when she walked into the kitchen tonight and found me still baking cookies–after I had started hours before–she quoted Monica.

I need a plan. A plan to get over my man. A jam plan.

And then proceeded to tell me that what Monica did right after that announcement was make jam. A whole heck of a lot of jam. Enough jam to fill the Delaware River, should it ever run dry.

Now a cookie plan doesn’t sound nearly as catchy, but I suppose it’ll do for now. And my friend, after hearing that I was up to making cookies again, texted me to please save him one.

And after giving the batches and batches of cookies a long hard look,

I assured him that I could save him twenty.

And two other things that stand out today.

My friend Christian went with me to the courthouse. You know, to file. We walked in and I didn’t know where to go. I also felt pretty stupid holding the best and the worst in my hand–my marriage certificate and the petition for divorce papers–with not even a folder to make it seem more presentable.

Or more hide-able.

I was clutching onto the papers the way a kindergartner holds their homework, all sticky fingers gripping tightly around the loose leaves; there were even a few little grease spots on the papers from when my mom had made me a grilled cheese sandwich and I was eating while handling them.

And since we were walking into a courthouse, it was serious business. We had to go through a security checkpoint and anything that wasn’t on my body had to go on a little conveyor belt with an X-ray machine. So I hesitantly just plopped all those papers down.

And I watched them as they separated.

The divorce papers slid out of view quite easily, but the marriage certificate, that was a fighter. It kept getting stuck on the strips of fabric and not quite making it to be X-rayed. And I just stood there watching, feeling like the world was in stop-time and I was destined to look upon my marriage certificate in limbo on that stupid conveyor belt forever.

I was also embarrassed, for some reason. I guess because no marriage certificate should ever be treated that way; it’s a sacred thing, and here it was being treated  as a common piece of paper with no value at all.

But honestly, it’s not the first time my marriage has been treated that way.

I finally got the papers back in my possession. We walked up to a man who must have heard the phrase, Where do I go to file for divorce? about a million times, but still, it was the first time I had to ask the question and really, the words felt awful. Just awful. I started the sentence okay, but when I got to the word file I dropped my volume and by the time I had to say divorce it was like a dirty little whisper.

He told me where to go and so we headed that way.

By the time we got up to the lady behind the desk, we had been standing for a bit. Talking. Smiling, even. And so I thought it was actually pretty funny when she asked Christian if he was the person I was divorcing. If I didn’t laugh then, I certainly laughed later, because how strange to be talking and jovial while standing in line with the person you are divorcing.

And then maybe the weirdest and most horrible thing was when she casually handed me a price list on a xerox copy. It was listed just like you’d see the lunch items listed in your elementary school cafeteria. You know, like:

Milk…………………………….$1.00

But only, it was this:

Divorce……………………….$160.00

And I was just standing there, holding that flimsy copy, looking at it.

I wanted to cry at the tragedy and laugh at the pure ridiculousness of it. I wanted to object to paying anybody money for something that I never wanted. But instead I grabbed it and stuck it with all the other papers that are just as absurd, just as official.

But I didn’t say anything because sometimes there just aren’t any words.