A country Carrie Bradshaw
But with a shared custody schedule—one life, two identities.
The year I got separated was a dark one.
I lived in an apartment five minutes up the road from the house that my husband and I bought together.
It was a hold-over for all the local divorcées, at least it was according to the guy standing in the elevator as I moved in.
I asked him, “So, what’s it like living here?”
He replied, “Lots of divorced people.”
We didn’t feel the need to exchange any further words.
I spent a lot of days and nights on my couch with a container of Thai food on my lap and Sex and The City on the screen.
I have a proclivity toward comparing phases and benchmarks of my life to heroines in books, tv, and film that I find relatable—and therefore, remarkable. It just makes me feel better and less alone, ya know?
So fast forward almost four years (I got separated at the very end of 2021).
This last weekend I was in Manhattan for work. I was walking to the venue on 33rd near Hudson Yards. It was golden hour and the sun reflected off the buildings. I was on my way to a party hosted by a fancy magazine and restaurant who were collaborating.
I thought to myself, Oh my god, I am living my Carrie Bradshaw moment.
I immediately texted my childhood best friend, with whom I share a deep attachment to the fucked-upness of the emotional unavailability of Mr. Big.
She responded with a darling photo of getting her baby ready for bed and a simple message that said, “A little more glamorous than my current situation!”
Another exchange that moved me.
The weird thing about being divorced and sharing custody of your children is the duality of having two opposing identities.
There is Mom Abbey (or Abbey Rodriguez), but this time she is single mom Abbey, and that shit is hard. But, I am a much better mom now that I am divorced and unstuck from the confines of a religion—and its gender role expectation—that no longer work for me. (Let’s be real, they never did.)
Then there is Single Abbey (or Abbey Fish). She is a little glamorous and romanticizes her life by wearing the sexy dresses, and going to the fancy parties, and drinking the champagne. She cooks in candlelight, eats freshly picked tomatoes that taste like summer sun, writes honestly and earnestly from her little desk that overlooks rolling hills and a vineyard, and takes breaks sipping tea in the rocking chair on her porch. Like, the audacity of this woman—but, she is me!
I wished and hoped for this life. At the expense of giving up half the time I spend with my children. I feel guilty about that sometimes. And I feel guilty for only feeling guilty sometimes. Like, shouldn’t I want my whole identity to be Mom Abbey?
That’s a narrative I still haven’t fully shaken, even after 15+ years of shedding Mormon ideology. I wonder if it will ever completely go away.
In the meantime, I am really liking the Country Carrie Bradshaw identity.
Hey, if the shoe fits, right?
Love peeking inside your brain, always.