I’m a forgetful gal, I must admit. Between taking five classes, teaching a dance class each week and working for this publication, little things easily slip my mind, such as birthdays, eating and returning phone calls. But when I realized I hadn’t signed my divorce papers, I had to stop and think-was it a simple lapse in memory or a subconscious act of neglect? After my husband’s cheating and lying (on two separate occasions, mind you) I completely dismissed any possibility of reconciling. It was no contest. There are just some cases in which the third time is not a charm.

But as I sat there, pen in hand and papers in front of me, an overwhelming gut feeling washed over me, and all I could do is stare at them, wanting to cry. For some reason, the thought of signing those papers seemed so final. It felt like not only the closing of a chapter, but also the ending of the book that made up the story of my life.

I walked out of my lawyer’s office that day still married.

I know. I’m an idiot.

I knew a future with him was impossible. I knew I deserved better. And I knew I needed to sign those papers. However, some part of me, and I didn’t know which part, wasn’t ready. I had to wait until every part of me signed those papers, not just my hand. So I put the papers aside temporarily, waiting for something-guts, motivation or just common sense-to slap me across the face so I could take that final step to freedom.

Meanwhile, it had been more than a year of no contact with Mr. Seemingly Perfect, and when I say no contact, I mean that God kept the two of us magnetically repelled from one another so that we would never end up in the same place at the same time, avoiding that awkward moment when you see someone you know and contemplate saying hello or running in the opposite direction. We had no physical, emotional, telephone, e-mail, instant messaging, Morse Code, telegram or any other form of contact. It was as if he had fallen off the face of the Earth.

Although I had grown accustomed to having my world much more sparsely populated in his absence, there had come a time when I knew somewhere out there he still existed. And I was curious to see how he was, where he was and who he was-if he was the same guy I remembered falling for or a slightly altered version of the asshole I remembered walking away from me.

Assuming in the small town we live in, the day would come when the two of us would have to talk, I decided to be the bigger person and open the door for conversation, a door that last closed with a very bitter exchange of words (which included vulgarity I cannot highlight in this column).

A few weeks later, I found myself driving to a Mexican restaurant-it was the first time since I’d sworn off Mexican food after we split up a year before-to meet this guy for a friendly “catch up” dinner.

And as I got out of my car, butterflies ready to stir, and saw his recognizable baseball cap heading in my direction, I felt a sudden feeling of relief. It was partly because he was just how I remembered him, partly because he greeted me with a smile and not with a face of horror or disgust and partly because he genuinely seemed happy to see me too. In preparation for that moment, I had expected none of the above.

We talked about each other’s families. We talked about school. We talked about our ex’s, our pasts and what happened between us. And we came to a consensus that we were both not ready to be in a serious relationship a year ago, which is why it didn’t work out. Then he apologized immensely for everything that happened, showing genuine regret for his decision to ditch me for a much younger someone who wants to be a tattoo artist when she grows up (his words; not mine).

Sitting there in that restaurant, I was surprised how comfortable I felt and how quickly we managed to start cracking jokes with each other, as though the bad stuff never happened and the two of us were never strangers. Then after supper, we spent another half hour talking in the parking lot next to my car, bringing back a tiny hint of déj… vu of the night we talked in my driveway until four in the morning when I got home from Alaska.

After about five goodbye hugs and vague plans to see each other again in the future, I finally stepped into my car and drove away, knowing I had gotten myself into something I didn’t expect, knowing that in just one night, every feeling I ever let go and every emotion I tried so hard to erase resurfaced.

Like a sudden jerk back to reality and a harsh slap across the face, I was forever changed.

I signed my divorce papers the next day.