I am a divorced man, which means I have no life to the point where it’s exciting to find a good deal on Hot Pockets. I even talk about it with my coworkers. “Hey, guess what! I just got a case of Hot Pockets for the price of one DiGiorno!” To which they reply, “I wouldn’t buy either of those unless they also came with a roll of toilet paper.”
Worse yet, I am also above the age of 40, which means that, statistically, my chances of ever being married again are right up there with the chances of winning a Nobel Prize for growing ear hair. A lot of single women my age are bitter, believing every negative stereotype about the opposite sex. It’s like a religion to them. Having a conversation is sometimes like waltzing with a porcupine. No matter which way I go, it will end with me at home alone pulling barbs from my backside.
I like to think I am doing better than other, less knowledgeable divorced men. I know how to dress myself, for instance. Divorced men are often handicapped in this area. There is no longer a wife to say, “You’re not wearing that are you?” To which he would respond, “Um, of course not!” when he is literally, at that moment, wearing it. Some divorced men have been seen sporting faded denim pants complete with grass-colored knees, a blue button-up long sleeve over a green t-shirt, one white sock and one argyle sock, and Dr. Scholl shoes. And they are proud that their t-shirt matches their knees and are thinking that, so long as they don’t sit down, no one will notice their socks.
And I have lost a considerable amount of weight. A few divorced men have asked me how I did it and the secret is being broke. My budget allows a hearty breakfast of coffee with a side of what’s-on-TV, a lunch consisting of a cup of water with a cigarette, and a supper of one Hot Pocket with an emergency trip to the commode.
This brings up the biggest reason I probably will never remarry, which is: Lack of Money. “You don’t need money to attract a woman.” People say. “It takes very little money to meet for coffee.” I mean no disrespect, but the French call this C’est des conneries (translation: bull caca). Very little money is exactly how much I have. It’s a choice between having money for Starbucks and having money for gas to get to Starbucks. Now, if there is a nice woman out there who will meet in a Starbucks parking lot to sniff coffee aroma, then I am ready!
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. I am simply stating my experience as a divorced man. It’s not bad because I now have the life of a teenager without all those ridiculous hopes and plans for a bright future. I go to work then I come home. I eat a Hot Pocket then run to the bathroom. I go to bed and, in the morning, I only have to make half the bed because the other half never got messed up. You have to find the positives where they are, right?