Today is the first day of my separation from my husband of almost six years, and I find myself enveloped in my mother’s knitting club, Knit and Natter.
The club, which meets every Monday morning at ten in the retirement home of Ye Olde Seaside Village in which my mother lives, consists of eight women ranging in age from sixty five to near death. I’d like to think I am bringing down the average age nicely, except that since I announced my separation, it has been suggested to me not once, but three times, that I might want to go to a sperm bank and inseminate myself ASAP. Apparently my youth and fertility left me with my husband.
By ten-thirty, Cindy, a quiet lady who was sitting to my right and industriously crocheting a blanket, looks up in concern.
“Aren’t you going to work on a project?”
“Oh. No. I’m not a knitter. I’m here to … natter.” I say lamely, as I had not yet said a word.
She nods, not wanting to challenge my lie.
In my defense, I had good reason for keeping quiet. Inevitably, when I chat with new acquaintances, my three least favorite questions arise.
1. What do you do? Cry a lot. Argue with my husband about the settlement. Wonder how I will restart my career. What about you?
2. Where do you live? With my mother. Enough said.
3. Are you married? Not any more. And while we are on the topic, no kids yet, but I have an appointment at the sperm bank next Tuesday.
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