“I’m married. But separated.”
I have said these words out loud on about a half-dozen dates in the last few months and, on other occasions, I haven’t said them at all—opting instead to say them internally over casual drinks with a potential love interest. I like to think that if I’ve said them in my head with the intention of injecting them into the conversation, it gets me off the hook somehow. That way, should the topic come up later, I can actually say, “Oh, I told you, didn’t I? I guess you just didn’t hear me.”
Being married, but separated, is no picnic. It is, for lack of a better word, embarrassing. Really embarrassing. I struggle enough with the fact that my marriage came to an end after just a year and a half, that my husband cheated on me, and left me for a girl 28 years his junior, just two years older than his daughter from a previous marriage. All of that is embarrassing, no matter how you slice it or how many times friends and family tell me that he’s the one who should be embarrassed. But still being married to him is a whole other level of embarrassment. In fact, I’d call it humiliating.
When you tell people—dates or otherwise—you’re separated, they ask the following questions, in this order: “How long have you been separated?” When I tell them it’s been over a year now, the next question is always, “So how come you’re not divorced yet?” It's complicated, even though we don't have any children or shared assets.
While no one gets divorced overnight (as if it just magically happens when you realize you never want to see that person again), in our case it’s taking longer than it should. For starters, we’re legally married in two countries (France and the U.S.), which makes for some long, drawn-out paperwork. Secondly, I married not just a French man, but a dreamer; a man who still clings to the idea of being the next Paul McCartney, even if he's pushing 50. In the beginning, I found his dream to still make it as a rockstar endearing. When we’re newly in love, most of us seem to find everything endearing. But now it’s what’s really standing in the way of our divorce: He doesn't have the financial means to divorce me—he doesn’t even have the financial means to live and refuses to find a proper job. This was a source of contention once that love-high wore off and I realized that, as the breadwinner of our relationship, no amount of endearment would change the fact that he was treating me like his personal bank.
So on the few occasions that I have admitted that I’m married but separated, I’ve had to get into the details of why this is the case. This doesn’t usually go over very well: Not only do very few men, in my experience, seem to want to date a woman who’s still legally married to another man and could be for a long time, but very few men want to date a woman who would have gotten herself caught up in such a predicament in the first place.
“You seem like a very intelligent woman,” one date said to me back in July. “So I’m really confused as to how you could have not just dated, but married someone who is such a —” But he stopped himself there. He was polite enough not to say the word, the “L” word we were both thinking. But the fact that it was out there, that judgment from him (as if I don’t judge myself enough), weighed heavily on the rest the night. I am an intelligent woman, I wanted to tell him. But I also wanted to follow that up with scientific research about love and what it does to the brain, as if it would justify what I can now comfortably call “stupidity” on my part. Then maybe I could be redeemed?
After that night, I decided I wouldn’t mention I was married but separated again. If things evolved to a point where it looked like the facts would be necessary, I’d reveal them then and only then.
I never thought I’d get married—I didn't even believe in marriage—so I really never thought I’d find myself married but separated, especially at 35. I don’t think of my marriage as a failure, as some might think of their own, but I do think of myself as having been blind, and I only have myself to blame. I guess it’s from there that the embarrassment stems: I should have known better. I’m so disappointed in myself that even just the thought of it makes me blush with shame.
Dating is hard. I realize that sentiment is hardly groundbreaking or remotely original, but you’re trying to sell yourself to someone else, convince them that you’re worth their time and hope that they’ll convince you of the same. You don’t want to delve into your sob stories, your murky past, those bizarre little quirks you have (the ones you hope they’ll love someday, if it gets to that point), or admit to your mistakes. While I don’t regret my marriage (regret is too strong a word), I do consider it a mistake, and one that will continue to embarrass me long after the divorce papers are signed in—well, 2025, at this rate. So as I continue this whole dating thing, I’m choosing to stay mum about my marital status. I have exes, as we all do, and that’s where the story will end. For now.
