Greener Grass or Fool’s Gold?

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I stepped onto the plane and the beaming Delta crew welcomed me aboard. Caribbean music filled the cabin as I acknowledged new beginnings, my hips warming to the enticing rhythm.

In spite of working on certifications and finishing my degree, my future loomed, lacking certain clarity– if there even is such a thing. I hoped stepping out of my own way would propel a path to unfold.

So here I was, trusting a forward momentum would compel growth.

But the truth was, I’d never envisioned divorce. I had stayed home raising our kids, supporting my husband through the good and bad, of which both there were plenty.

I found 3C and settled myself in. Alone, I began to relax. The only pending decision was whether I wanted red or white.

My first girls trip in twenty years. My good friend Gina lived in Atlanta, a mere two-hour flight away. Why had it taken me so long to come? I’d married young and my sole focus was family.

Time had crept by without warning.

Gone were spring breaks where the bikini reigned. A time when youth felt never-ending– as did the endless supply of men’s attention, being the center of their desire. Still, here I was, though I’d almost cancelled twice.

Anticipation aroused imagining the week ahead. Hiking, yoga, restaurants, and Southern food for sure. Gina had mentioned going to a popular cougar club attracting all ages.

I couldn’t imagine myself there. I wasn’t interested in going backwards…yet it might be fun. How does an almost single lady behave? People watch or mingle? Was grinding on the dance floor now a faux pas? Would I sip wine and lure them in? How do I concoct this fuzzy line? Possibilities circled my mind.

An attractive man, greying at the temples, settled into his seat a row in front of me, the opposite aisle. He smiled at the elderly couple across from him. A spark. I was stunned.

I hadn’t granted my imagination or simmering desire to wander beyond my husband before. I’ve learned over the years that even the shiniest gold rarely held its value, so why even bother?

The man had expensive taste, not overdone, just enough. I couldn’t see his left hand. His cologne was subtle and woodsy.

I took his masculinity in.

I imagined the man’s name Jacques; he had an irresistible French look to him. Jacques cascaded confidence, authority, yet maintained a boyish softness, ever so appealing.

I felt a pang recalling the gentleness and silly grins my husband once reserved for me, for the attentive man he once aspired to be.

Jacques would remember my birthday. Our anniversary. We’d hold hands on vacation, and he’d want to wear his wedding ring. He’d recognize– no, seize opportunities to make me feel valued.

And Jacques wouldn’t wear mirrored sunglasses either. His eyes wouldn’t scurry like frenzied cockroaches, whetting his desire for sculpted beach bodies walking the sand.

I know 40s are the new 30s, yet I somehow acquired the belief of being unworthy, forsaken. A discarded remnant, a once radiant blossom, cherished and displayed.

I didn’t feel different– I was still a mother and felt like a wife.

Sure, the mirror exposed inevitable changes, yet weren’t we supposed to evolve and embrace these together?

I’d also yearned to recapture a carefree existence, to enjoy life as an undemanding glide, though not to the extent of breaking apart our family.

I wished reinvention were as effortless as a dimming light, a slight turn forcing darkness to light.

Boarding this plane was a significant feat. It marked a new birth, a small renaissance bounding me to recapture the woman under this guise.The person I once was, before becoming the all to everyone. I closed my eyes as the plane crawled toward the runway.

The music died down as our climb began and I reached for my book. Jacques was on his tablet, which glowed like a magical beacon in the dimmed cabin. I snuck a quick glance at his screen.

He was scrolling through pictures of women, it almost looked like a dating site.

I suppressed an emerging grin. I guessed him around 50 years old. Divorced, single? He should be clear of a midlife crisis, something I refused to ever navigate again.

Fragmented thoughts bounced back to my husband, bringing a slow burn to my cheeks. Somewhere between our push and pulls, I’d lost my sparkle. Calcified.

He’d lost sight of his assets, the family, and me– his wife. The children and I symbolized burden, restraint. We had become an opposing force that paled to the lure of superficial success.

I was a dreaded mirror reflecting lost youth, my presence provoked his midlife dilemma of seizing that something more.

I returned to my book but couldn’t help noticing Jacques was still on the site. Who was he looking for? His girlfriend or wife? I whispered no under my breath and leaned forward to get a better look at his screen.

I remember when my husband carried a photo of me in his leather wallet. With time, the cowhide faded and grew old, signaling the need for a newer model. He’d transfer my faded picture, looking at it with a satisfied smile before tucking it away.

And then one day, my photo was no longer amongst the worn cards. I searched through everything twice, but it was gone.

Jacques was quite good looking. Fit and muscular, it was obvious he cared about health and appearance. He looked financially stable, but not a person that cared too much about the show.

A man of depth. Jacques wasn’t afraid to show his emotions, he was secure in himself and didn’t feel a need to prove too much.

Moving in a bit closer to see Jacques screen, I could make out two of the women, one blonde and the other brunette. His swipes now a bit more urgent, impatient, intent on finding that certain something. Inching forward, I squinted to get a better look.

I swallowed hard, watching each swipe produce a young beautiful woman laying nude.

They were maneuvered into pretzel like forms, sometimes one, sometimes two. The women flaunted tantalizing poses, inviting, offering that elusive something more.

Jacques grabbed his briefcase from the seat next to him and placed it directly on his lap, glancing sheepishly around the cabin.

I shrank back in my seat, my mouth half-open. I set my book on the chair next to me and looked around. Nobody was paying any attention, not even the elderly couple.

I wanted to grab the flight attendant and expose Jacques, like back when Steve had kept calling my friend Dawn, dawnkey, in the second grade. I wanted validation of this injustice.

Our long walks on the beach during sunset fizzled in my mind. How could I possibly ever compete? But I didn’t. Instead I sat in silence, taking this anomaly in. Twenty minutes later, Jacques stood to use the bathroom.

He placed his left hand on the headrest nearest him, his diamond-studded wedding ring was gold, shining prominent and new.