I didn’t get married anticipating divorce. Nor did I, a fashion and beauty editor, expect to find all my garments suddenly unwearable. Yet there I was, alone in my bedroom, with a wardrobe full of nothing I wanted to wear.
I wish I could tell you there was a big, explosive blowout, a tantalizing scandal, or a major red flag that festered or metastasized beyond the point of reconciliation, but the sad truth is that we grew apart. And as the chasm between us became too wide to bridge, it felt easier to separate gracefully than to force a lifetime together.
After a breakup, most people wax melancholic about the landmarks they frequented, once-cherished memories that become almost too painful, too unbearable to hold onto— anecdotal souvenirs that they wish they could scrub clean, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind-style. Remember how happy we were there and there and there? For me, those tales are told in threads: There’s the Only NY long-sleeve I bought, because it was one of his favorite brands; a J.Crew sweater he gifted me during one of our first holidays together; the vintage Thierry Mugler suit I snagged on one of our trips to
