You know those stories where a woman leaves her boring, spreadsheet-obsessed husband and falls into the arms of a dangerous man? I lived that. My ex-husband, Brad, was a man who once vetoed a vacation because the hotel’s bathroom tile wasn’t “geometrically aligned.” So, yes.
I divorced him over a plate of lukewarm pasta. That’s not a metaphor. He criticized my spaghetti, and I thought, “I have twenty more years of this?” The next week, I filed.
