While the rest of the country was experiencing the freezing polar vortex, I was in California having a full-on hot-mess meltdown. If I do something – I own it. Maybe it is impending emotional maturity, or ambivalence, or just the Lexipro – but I’m the first person to call myself out when warranted. I really don’t care what people think anymore. I often boast about how masterful I am at keeping it all together, taking the high road, and laughing in the face of difficult times. Well, sometimes we have to laugh at (not with) ourselves. I’m not sure exactly what triggered my trip to crazy town – the holidays, the build-up of stress, burn-out or possibly the tequila – but for whatever reason, I lost it. The crowning jewel of said meltdown was the multiple calls I made to a single number that I shouldn’t have. (Dear Apple – why is that you lock me out after forgetting my password like twice, but you let me dial the same number that many times with margaritas on my breath? Isn’t there some kind of app or algorithm to fix that?) As always, the members of my tribe who witnessed it – got me through it and got me home. (Thank you.) Every once and a while, even the strongest souls just need to sit in the car in a dark driveway listening to Eminem and sobbing until snot bubbles come out of our noses. I truly believe that the most important thing that can come from a divorce – or any experience – is the lesson you learn. One of my favorite expressions is “It’s not how many times you fall down, it’s how many times you get back up.” My take away from this is, “It’s not how many times you call, it’s how many times they don’t pick up.” At one time or another, we all take leave of our senses. And the people that are still there when we return, are the ones that matter. The ones who drive us home safely, who tell us we look pretty with swollen eyes and mascara running down our cheeks, who pick us up no matter how many times we fall, and who answer the phone – no matter how many times we call.