That night, wearing my halter dress from Kenya, my red heels and a little makeup, I make the Ball and Chain my evening’s last stop.
As I enter the club’s garden, standing beneath sea grape trees, bougainvillea and twinkling string lights, the D.J. drops a bachata song. Recognizing the rhythm, I began to step side to side. If I had a partner, he would spin me. So I lift one arm up as though I am holding someone’s hand and twirl on my own.
Next comes a salsa number, and I switch it up, stepping forward and back. Bachata comes naturally to me but, when I salsa, I’m slow and deliberate. When I try to speed up, my timing is off: I lose the beat, stutter-step, try to pick it up again. Do I look ridiculous? Probably. But I don’t care.
Over the course of the evening, half a dozen men approach me, asking if they can join and, though I smile, I politely say, “No, thank you,” and wave them all away. On my own — after two divorces and a lifetime’s worth of heartbreak — I’ve finally found my rhythm. Because that is what the hot divorcée summer is all about — shaking off the yoke of a marriage that didn’t work out, letting go of the past and being present in the moment, fully embracing the woman you are right now, the woman who was forged by the heat of so many fires.
And the next morning, when I get into my car to drive home, I put my wide-brimmed hat on the passenger seat to ride shotgun with me when I pick up the kids after school and shuttle them around to their activities — a constant reminder that I’m more than a struggling, frightened mother of two. I’m a hot divorcée, whether it’s summer or not.
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