I’m not sure how Tom Hanks and Free Solo and poetry and golf and the truth somehow all relate to my divorce, but they definitely all crash around my mind, elbowing each other for more room and, hopefully, top billing in my sad, sad play. Maybe that’s why my eventual expiration date on my life is comforting, as much as death can be a comfort. I don’t want to die, but don’t fear it as much as I used to. All of the bullshit won’t matter anymore—except student loans. Everyone knows those follow you to and through the pearly gates, or to the depths of hell, or to non-existence, or to your next life as a cricket. Wells Fargo is a sticky lender. And they know not the year of Jubilee.

Anyhow, divorce is like falling off the face of El Capitan without a rope and on the way down you think, “How did Sam ever move on, especially living with that weirdo buzzkill Jonah calling national radio shows and blabbing about his sleep apnea. I wish Sam would’ve just left Jonah in NYC; he and hypothermia were MFEO.” 

And then, right before the SPLAT, somehow you’re rescued by family and friends and art and honesty and you think, “Maybe Sam is finally sleeping in Seattle and maybe that means I can move on, too, because I mean, my ex is just my ex. She didn’t die and I didn’t move from Chicago to Seattle because I wanted to avoid Wrigley Field memories. What was I talking about again? Oh, yeah, maybe love will be slightly less painful next time. And why did Alex Honnold feel the need to climb that daggum slab o’ rock?”