Celebrate, redux

Today is the eighth anniversary of the day I married my ex husband. The eighth anniversary is the bronze anniversary. Bronze like third place. Bronze like missing that step in the triple jump and landing a couple of inches shy of first place, but those couple of inches gnaw at you and grate like the sand that worked its way into your singlet when you landed and this was your last shot at the Olympics because you're "over the hill" in the world of athletics when in the real world you're not even old enough yet to be elected senator, and your left knee is practically shot anyway from years and years of beating your body up just to fly farther, to do better (did I just tear my meniscus?), but you missed that chance, that FINAL chance and all you can taste is your own sweat and the steely tang of failure in your mouth as you stand on top of the shortest step at the medal ceremony and watch that stuck up Bulgarian bitch get the gold you've given up your LIFE for as you look out over the faces of the rest of the athletes who didn't even place, but you hate them, hate them one and all because they didn't lose...they've got next time...you don't...all you have is a bronze fucking medal because...you...failed.

Yesterday was the third anniversary of my divorce being final. The third anniversary is leather. Leather like hot, wet, dangerous and fast things. Leather is so much better than bronze, isn't it?