The Smile

It’s tax time AND  when tax time comes around…I think of this story.
This story happened.
To me.
…a couple of years ago.
Right after it happened, I was compelled to unravel it by writing about it.
A year ago around this time (tax time, of course), I pulled it out, wrote a forward, then I passed it onto someone in my professional life to read, and they told me not to put it up…so I did not…and I don’t regret it BUT I do regret not listening to my own opinion first.

BUT all in all the marination was probably for the best, my life has changed a great deal in the last few years while this tale was burning a hole in my mental pocket, so I recently pulled it out again, edited it, went over it with a clearer head, a more focused mind and a fine tooth comb.
Mostly, people, I revisited it because I refuse to be afraid of telling my stories anymore.
So here it is. For good or ill.
This kind of writing is one of the reasons I started this word place…I wanted to be brave enough to tell this shit, because I know if I lay these stories down with an open heart and a strong back, it will provide a foundation for an even braver and more fruitful future.

Okay, enough chit chat.

Are you ready?

Do you want to travel back in time with me?
It’s an interesting tale, to be sure.
I was IN it, but I THINK I can say it’s interesting, without any hubris.
AND it’s a period piece, you see, from over a year ago (longer now), back to a time when COVID was ravaging part of the world, but not yet THIS part of the world and we, the laymen, never thought it would affect us.
We were living gloriously in the old world, and didn’t even know it.
We were still madly hugging each other, leaning into each other to laugh, drinking from the same glass and eating from the same fork and sneezing willy nilly (I know THAT slang term is really something else, but that’s what I always thought it was, and I don’t want to let it go) without fear of repercussion or, well, just plain old fear.
Do you want to come back with me to a time JUST before masks?
And sanitizer?
And the STUPID toilet paper/Lysol Wipe frenzy of 2020?
Come with me to a moment that I’d waited for, for what seemed like a VERY long time, but actually, in the grand scheme of things, really wasn’t a very long time. Do you wanna journey with me?
I’ll ask you to hang tight for a minute, while I lay the necessary pipe that leads us up to a day in which (if you did not know the back story) it would have seemed there was just a lovely moment when a woman I knew smiled at me.
But it was not lovely.
And it was not just a smile.
This smile changed my life, and pushed me over the proverbial edge.
A smile.
Intrigued?
Before we go any further?
This story is NOT for the faint hearted…it’s real…and it’s thorny as hell. REALLY thorny.

Okay, here we go.

Oh, I want to remind you (before we join hands and “Alice-It” down the rabbit hole) that I wrote most of this over a year ago (two years ago, now).
I know, right?
It’s been sitting inside my computer, like a virus, ever since…

February 26th, 2020.
This morning I finally found myself alone, face to face with ONE of the woman who knew what was happening in my life, while I did not, and much like the Great Purge of 2020, this also happened by accident.
The aforementioned Great Purge of 2020 occurred one wintery day, in early February.
In an effort to try and leave the house during a small town winter, I went down into the basement to get a bra that was hanging to dry…and I ended up clearing out the basement instead…mostly without a bra, even though it was dangling on the drying rack, only a few feet away from me for most of the day.

That is how some of life’s bigger things happen sometimes, on a whim…and fast.

Once I got started, once I opened the Pandora’s Box of the Purge of 2020, it was on, AND there was no time to stop and do something frivolous, like put on a bra.
The Purge was spectacular.
It was mad. It was manic. It was biblical. It was bra-free…an unintended nod to feminism that was not unwelcome.
I felt like over a million dollars as I packed load after load in the back of my car, and hauled it ALL to the city dump, wearing sweatpants, rubber boots pulled on over two unmatching ankle socks, and a North Face parka worn over nothing but a tank top, boobs swinging away for Jesus.
I must have looked properly unhinged.
Which is fairly awesome, you have to admit.
I was a proper wild woman with a mission.

MISSION: CLEAN OUT THIS SPACE and BE FREE OF ALL THIS MARRIAGE SHIT.

Now, fast forward a few weeks, back to today, February 26th, 2020, and this woman who knew what was going on in my life, when I didn’t, this same woman who I saw this morning, who was highly knowing almost the WHOLE time my ex-husband was cheating on me.
And it’s NOT the woman he cheated with, THIS woman that I saw by accident this morning…no…it was almost worse because it was someone that I called my good friend and colleague for at least 17 years.
The woman who was friends with both me and my ex, but somehow chose to keep his stupid secret from me for two long, complicit years.
I know, brutal, right?
Indeed, it is.
With a friend like her?…well, you know the rest.
And this morning?
Unlike the Great Purge of 2020, when I saw her, I was wearing a bra.
A VERY STRONG BRASSIERE.
So, I was grounded. Really grounded. It was ALSO a push up…so the girls were presenting.
AND, to build the tension of the situation, I had the knowledge that SHE knew about the affair, since D-Day, since the day I discovered the affair, almost two years ago

FOR CLARITY, SHE KNEW ABOUT THE CHEATING FOR ALMOST TWO YEARS, AND I FOUND OUT THAT SHE KNEW AND I DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING TO HER IN PERSON FOR ALMOST ANOTHER TWO YEARS.

And I’d never had the chance or opportunity to speak my mind, my furious mind, my wild mind, my angry mind, my betrayed mind, my disappointed mind to her, in person.
Alone.
Without gawkers. I didn’t want gawkers for my confrontation with…this woman.
You know what, I cannot keep calling her THIS WOMAN, because you may confuse her with the woman my husband cheated with for two long years…gross…so, let’s call her…Debbie…just for clarity.
Debbie.
Fucking Debbie.

This morning, sitting in the waiting room of my accountant’s office for my yearly appointment, I watched the clock on the wall as time ticked by.
I’d arrived early, because I had an audition later, and wanted to be out as soon as possible. Besides the audition and the tax appointment, I had a long list of things to do, because I’m leaving in two days to spend a month in LA.
The PREVIOUS two months have been BIG, filled with working, thinking, learning to be fine or better than fine, to figure out how to be in my house – my marriage house – as a single person, now that I am finally divorced and have changed the locks.
What a mess divorce is.
What a challenge it is to reclaim this fucking house, to reclaim my life.
Living, breathing and being quietly angry in said house is what led me to ALL the basement cleaning, the spiritual ghost busting, full circling, thought crunching, and the unpacking of the divorce finally being done-ing.
After ALL this, I knew I needed to be somewhere that was not here for a while, so I booked a month for myself far away from home, in a place that is warm, scattered with people I don’t know. Somewhere warm, to write, and be peaceful.
LA.
I love LA.
Some don’t, because of the entertainment business, the Kardashians and the bohemians…but I sure do.
So, in my mind and spirit, I’m almost gone BUT there is only one more big thing to accomplish before I leave Canada, and this tax appointment will take care of it.
All the materials needed for my 2019 return, my first solo return, were neatly arranged in my lap, hands resting lightly and protectively on top, as I sat in the brown leather chair, in the lobby of my accountants office, watching the precious minutes roll by.
I think I even tapped my fingers.
As I probably tapped my fingers, I felt no small amount of pride that I was there more than two months before the tax deadline.
Now, I know it may seem strange, BUT there is almost nothing better than when my accountant, who I’ve been coming to for 28 years, is proud of, or impressed with me.
It is like a Dad’s seal of approval.
Yes.
I have authority issues. It’s fine. Look away. I’m working on it.
Ug, how terribly common to have Daddy issues.

BUT this moment in the lobby, I’m fussed with him, because my accountant who is never late, is uncharacteristically 15 minutes behind.
The secretary apologizes over and over again, telling me that the client before me had arrived late and needed more time.
My accountant’s door finally opens, 23 minutes after our appointed time, and I’m SUDDENLY and FINALLY and INCONVENIENTLY faced with this women who knew about my husband’s affair, and did not tell me, for almost two years, that I can figure.

Debbie.

Fucking Debbie.

Fucking Debbie was late for her appointment and then bled into mine…which was…typical…and infuriating.
So, staring at her, I’m immediately a hot six, on a scale of one to ten Just-Divorced-Woman triggered.
When Debbie sees me, she stops short…looks at me, then walks by me…SMILES…and walks out the door.
Smiles.
She smiles.
She fucking smiled.
She smiled…AT ME…like nothing happened.
Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me!?!?!?!?!?!

MY FACE HEATS UP LIKE THE SUN.
MY HEART BEATS LIKE A…LIKE A…LIKE A THING THAT BEATS VERY, VERY FAST….OKAY, like the wings on a hummingbird, but HARDER.
WAY HARDER.

ALL I CAN THINK IN MY FIGHT OR FLIGHT BRAIN is that I’m 98% sure that Fucking Debbie, forever now THE SMILER, almost certainly befriended the woman my husband cheated with WHILE HE CHEATED ON ME (at least she knew her and communicated with her…I have proof of this because I play a detective of sorts on TV and it’s bled into my life).

SIDEBAR: Part of MY proof comes in the form of a video that arrived on my phone VIA the APPLE family account in 2017. When I tripped over it…again, by accident…I watched it, was confused by it, and asked my husband (at the time) what and who it was. He told me it was a friend of his that he’d met on a tour, who was helping out Fucking Debbie (who the in-process cheating woman greets BY NAME on the video) with an accent for an audition. And I didn’t even question it, at the time because I deeply trusted him…trusted him with my life. In 2018, when I was forensically pouring over my ENTIRE life to figure out what the fuck went wrong, I came across it again in my phone, lost my mind, felt like a fucking fool, the tides of despair and fury rushed over me so hard that I had to lie down for 72 hours, questioning everything and all the female friends he had over our entire marriage.
END OF SIDEBAR.

NOW, Fucking Debbie has the fucking GALL to SMILE at me…after taking MORE of my precious time…23 minutes, to be exact, in TRUE FUCKING DEBBIE FASHION…after HELPING my ex to leave me clueless for months and months.
Which is, as far as I am concerned, a fucking decision.
After a few days, a few weeks, a few months, a year…omission becomes a decision…NOT a mistake.
IT IS A CHOICE.
BOOM. TRUTH.
A choice which obviously also applies to my ex husband, I know this and have mentioned it BELIEVE ME…BUT it ALSO applies to Fucking Debbie…a fact which I have NOT had the chance to mention to HER…in person.
Out loud.
I. AM. QUICKLY. APPROACHING. LEVEL. NINE. TRIGGERED.
HEART – THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
FACE – BURN. BURN. BURN.
AND WITH THE INSPIRATION OF ONE MAXINE WATERS, I AM PRETTY SURE I’M MOMENTARILY GOING TO BE RECLAIMING MY FUCKING TIME. (This reference is of a time…but I still love it…in this period piece) BUT FIRST, Sharron, LET YOUR LIFE WITH DEBBIE PASS BEFORE YOUR EYES.

During the last 15 years, you have had meals and drinks with Debbie, AND called her a friend…you worked with Debbie and sang with Debbie.
I ate with Debbie, talked with Debbie, drove to wine country with her, made a point of going to seeing her cabaret with my sister WHILE HE WAS CHEATING ON ME, AND SHE KNEW…well, she was my friend, why wouldn’t I see her fucking show?
With all the hard evidence I found, I believe that Debbie knew everything that was happening, again, for almost two years and did not tell me.
I’ve seen her three times since I found out that she knew everything, but had never been alone with her.
I did not want our “conversation” to be viewed by anyone else in our lives.
I wanted to get to say my piece, alone.
Almost two years ago, when I first found out that she knew, I wrote her a very long and scathing message that ended poetically with the words:

GO FUCK OFF. FOR. EVER.

A year later, when I was faced with Debbie at a friend’s party, she buzzed around me, landing on everyone around me, virtually inches from me as if NOTHING had every happened, and somehow, though my heart raced in my chest and my mind whirled and my mouth filled with all I wanted to say, I walked away from her, went home, and wrote her ANOTHER scathing message that ended with:

P.S. AND GO FUCK OFF AGAIN. THIS. TIME. FOR. EVER.

And as she leaves my accountant’s office, with that stupid smile on her stupid face, like the mighty Niagara Falls plowing over the edge of the cliff, all the truth and deception, ALL of THAT aforementioned fuckery, crashes down on me.
FUCKING Debbie who knew everything, has the fucking stones to smile at me in my accountant’s office, after she bled into MY appointment and then swanned off, stupid fucking smile still on her face, into the hallway.

I turned to my waiting accountant and said, “I will be 5 minutes”.

With my beat red, hot as Hades face, clutching my precious tax papers in my white knuckled hands, I followed Debbie into the hallway.
It was finally just her and I, as I had imagined, as I had dreamed…as I had hoped.
The next five minutes went something like this:

Me: HEY! You have the fucking gall to smile at me? Like nothing ever happened?! You are a terrible person. A terrible person. A clueless person. A selfish person. You knew the whole fucking time…you even became her fucking FRIEND…and you never told me. You are a garbage person. I wish you nothing.

Debbie: Well, I wish YOU happiness.

Me: Well, Debbie, I don’t want your fucking wishes. I have my own happiness. Fuck you and your wishes.

Debbie: You don’t know how hard it was for me…

Me: OH!!! Was it haaaaaard?! Was it hard for you? Are you fucking kidding me?

Debbie: It was very difficult….

Me: OH, was it DIFFICULT? For YOU!?

Debbie: My therapist told me that sometimes when the friend who knows tells the other person in the relationship who doesn’t….they lose BOTH friends!

Me: (my hot as Hades head almost explodes) THAT was what you were worried about? Your friendship with HIM…instead of my WHOLE life? You selfish fucking prick. You were worried about YOU while I was walking around like a fucking fool. SITTING BESIDE YOU. OUT FOR YOU WITH DRINKS. WHILE YOU KNEW MY LIFE…WHEN I FUCKING DIDN’T. FUCK YOU! Typical you. Typical, sensitive, artist, selfish you, Debbie.

Debbie: Well…

And then, because I’d finally come this far? My anger carried me further…way further.

Was it too far? It’s hard to say…but say it I did.

Me: You know why he told you the things he told you? Because you’re a cheater. YOU are a fucking cheater. You and (insert name here) deserve each other. Does that hurt you? Well, then maybe NOW you know one millionth of what I felt.

My breath is ragged and the flood gates are blown off…I’m panting…my hands are clenching and unclenching, at my sides, the right one sweating through the brown manilla envelope of my return information.
And yes, I know the cheating stuff is low…and I almost left it out of THIS retelling…but it’s what I said…it’s the truth…it’s what I spit out of my mouth at her…but I WANTED to hurt her…I wanted to wound her.
I wanted her to feel ONE SMALL CUP of the ocean sized pain and discomfort I’d felt…that she had been a part of.
And she does hurt.
I can see it.
And I get no glory from it…and barely any satisfaction…but, let’s be honest, I get a little.
Her mouth begins to tremble.

She: YOU are a bully. Everyone knows it. You are a fucking bully, Sharron. You’re so angry and only YOUR feelings matter…all the time.

That hits.
That hurts.
That adds to the already mountainous heap of shit I’m wading through…and she sees it…and I see her seeing it. Her trembling mouth stops…trembling.
No ma’am.
You don’t get this moment, DEBBIE.
This moment is ALL mine.
I narrow my eyes and go for broke.

Me: (I feel my hands start to shake and my chest becomes filled with weight) No, I am just fucking mad enough to tell you exactly what is on my mind. And it’s so YOU to act like a victim. I remembered a moment with you years ago, when you were telling me about kissing someone’s husband…and how the heart wants what the heart wants. Every time I think of that, I think how people can justify ANYTHING. ANYTHING. You know what, Debbie? I waited till it was just you and me…because I deserve that…and because somehow, after how shitty you’ve been? I don’t want to make a fool of you like you made a fool of me. I’m fucking better than that. SO! You can take all your Marianne Williamson bullshit, and ALL the fucking life quotes that you put up on social media and shove them up your ass. I see you. I SEE you. I SEE you for who you are. AND YOU are looking at a woman who has no fucks left to give. And you are not worth anymore time than this…I am done with you. Done. HOW HARD IS IT TO SAY, “Sharron, I FUCKED UP…I AM SORRY”!?!? NOT HARD!!! FUCK. YOU. FUCK. OFF. AGAIN.

And then, in a true mature grown up move, I tuck the sweaty, crumpled envelope under my arm so I can properly flip her both my middle fingers and walk back into my accountant’s office.
My heart was beating at a throbbing 130 by the time I sat down opposite him, I know this because I checked my Fitbit.
My accountant just sat there looking stunned. I am not sure how much he heard…but I know he heard some of it, at the very least.
And I am barely holding it together.
BARELY.
I feel like I’m seconds from a heart attack, really. I’m not certain he’s had to ever deal with this kind of emotion in his office…even though he gives bad news to actors all the day long.
My accountant clears his throat, and says quiet clearly:

ACCOUNTANT: Well, Sharron if I’d known about that…relationship…I would have scheduled you both at a better time.

He looks at my face, and grabs the tissues.
As I take the box Kleenex, I hand him my papers and he looks at me for one more moment…and picks up a pencil…

ACCOUNTANT: It’s okay. I will start. You just…you just…it’s okay.

He starts to quietly work away, as I struggle to compose myself.
And after about 20 minutes, I mostly AM okay.
We actually laughed, I answered all the questions, we talked about RRSPs, he asked about my writing and my work, and in the end when I told him I had already paid my taxes and HST in the prescribed installments and saved the rest in another account.
AND THEN, I finally got what I REALLY came for.
He looked proud of me.

ACCOUNTANT: You’re doing well, Sharron. Really well.

Am I?

I poke around inside, in between all the waves of feelings, spark-plug-firing-nerves, almost-tears that have been diverted by math and questions about my mortgage and decide I am indeed, fine…or will be, at any rate.

Speaking of rates, by then, my heart rate was a cooler 78. Not my resting which is a 63…which frustrates my doctor to no end…but 78 is understandable under the circumstances.
My accountant is almost retired.
He only sees the old faithfuls like me, like Debbie, who ACTUALLY probably started coming to see my accountant, because of me.
It must have, at the very least, been an interesting day for him.
When my taxes were all wrapped up, I left the office, walked back down the hallway of my recent truth, and carried on with my own day.
I went to my audition (it was fine, I’ll take it).
I ran many errands in preparation for my trip.
All the while, I felt light and heavy.

I don’t think I can actually count how many days I’ve had like this since my marriage abruptly, yet in a long-drawn-out-secret fashion, ended…days in which I had to accomplish work, show up, pretend my life was not weird and fraught as hell, bite my tongue, smile when people would tell me about how THEY felt about my life, not implode and just put one foot in front of the other…and doing any of those things after any kind of confrontation or life surprise was the…well, it was just the hardest most energy draining thing I’ve ever experienced.

It takes hours, maybe days, for me to shake a confrontation like that, but I had taken my moment with Fucking Debbie, saying everything I wanted to say and was willing to see these feelings through.
Were the cheating comments mean?
Some would say yes, I would say yes, but I decided that I get to have that…I give myself grace on that.
I’m not an angel, but I have been through hell and I fucking get that.
If you judge me for it, that’s fine with me, but maybe you should walk in my shoes first.
And good luck with that because they are worn the fuck out.
I’m going to LA and buying new fucking shoes.

Now tonight, as I lay in bed, mulling over the whole day, I know that if I did not tell her what I felt, had not expressed how deeply she’d wounded me, I would regret it forever.
I would go away on my trip with a thorn in my paw.
I would have carried that SMILE in my craw, something to worry over and obsess over.
And Fuuuuuuuck that.
I’ve started a whole new facet of my life and I don’t want to start it regretting moments gone by when I could have spoken up for a version of me that really was not honoured, that was afraid to speak, and was hurt deeply.
My silence would not be doing myself service and I need that service.
Still, I lay here, tossing and turning, with that small amount of dis-ease inside me, still a bit unsure of my big move with Debbie, so I called my sister.
She answered almost right away, which is crazy because she goes to sleep at 9:00pm and it was almost 1:00am.

Gwen: Are you all right?

Me: Yeah. Yeah. Am I… (breathes out all the air in the Grand Canyon)

Gwen: Sharron, are you okay?

Me: I am. I really am…but…Gwen…am I a bully?

Gwen: What happened.

I tell her about the confrontation.

Gwen: Is that the woman who gave us the tickets to that rock show, whose stupid cabaret show we went to see??

Me: Yes. Yeah, that’s her.

Gwen: (pause. I can actually hear her growl low like a bear) No. No, you are not a bully. No, you are the woman that told her that what she did was shitty. You told her she was shitty. You told her off. It’s the thing we all really want to do, that most of us never do. You made her responsible for her actions. In my books, she got what she deserved for her part in all of this…maybe even less. Knowing you AT ALL…she’s lucky that you didn’t do it in a crowd. You are not…listen to me…you are NOT a bully. You spoke your mind. She got what she deserved.

Me: Okay. Okay. Thank you. I love you. Thank you for picking up. Night.

Gwen: Good night sister…you are you…remember that…you never changed…you are still you. Love you.

As we hang up, I can hear her husband sleepily asking if I am okay.
Family, man.
Gwen.

YOU ARE STILL YOU.

I gasp a breath in.

What the hell would I do without her? Without them? Without my friends?
The last two months in my small town, marriage-now-divorced house helped me solidify my goal to be truthful, to not be shamed or cowed by what happened, to be honest about my feelings, to not be a doormat or “classy” because I shut the fuck up.
Sadness, silence, eating your emotions and swallowing feelings isn’t more acceptable than anger and expressing your feelings in truth.
If it makes people uncomfortable, so be it.
I’ve been carrying shit for too long, worried about the discomfort of others and what they will think about me.
I won’t do that anymore.
The people who love me will be able to talk with me about it…and the people who don’t…well, they don’t figure.
They just don’t.
They can work it out for themselves.
I’m done making decisions based on people who don’t figure in my life…who don’t cherish my time and my heart, as I do.
As I NOW do.
That kind of blind consideration is exhausting…and, quite frankly, unhealthy.

As I lay in my bed, after I got off the phone with Gwen, my bed that is soft with the beautiful linens I bought just for me, my life that is peppered with friends who live all around this small town, in the city AND around the world – on the end of my phone whenever I feel the need, graced with my fully creative life and with a bright future that I have the power and strength to make as fruitful as I wish to with hard work, with my sister, my family and the aforementioned friends as a part of my army…I hug it all close. All my friggen blessings.
This night, I feel my own mind and heart become almost as clean and uncluttered as my basement.
Almost. I still have some shit to throw away, but I am pretty proud of the space and headway I’ve made.
So much new space.
So many bras to buy or to eschew.
And I know that if I ever put this writing, this story, anywhere for public consumption, I will have to deal with repercussions but I hope I get to a place where THAT is not as daunting as it is today, where the telling is more important than the fear of what will happen IF I tell.
I DO believe that I WILL get to a moment when I’m ready to live more in the uncomfortable middle, instead of living for people who already think they know my actual life, and have an opinion…but don’t figure AND have NO idea.
I want to move past the “What will people say?” phase of my life.
I really do.
BUT as of this night, I’m going to LA in less than two days…I’m gonna put this essay away, for now.
I don’t need the hassle right now.
The basement, the taxes and the confrontation with Fucking Debbie wore me out.
But one day, maybe I won’t mind the hassle so much…or be ready to stand beside the hassle, like a boss.
So, I’m going away light in spirit, taxes done, my basement clean, bitches taken care of and with a true smile on my face.
I know I have more to do, I know I have more things to deal with and discover, but today? Tonight, laying between my soft sheets, by myself, I am clear.
AND what a thing that is.

AND I FUCKING SMILE.

Started February 26th, 2020 Stratford, ON

Finished April 5th, 2022 Toronto, ON S.M.

AS always, thanks for reading…and if you dig it? Share it, or read it again, or subscribe below. You will be notified of updates (including my first upcoming live dates in four years) if you subscribe…AND sorry if you got this in your email twice, the formatting was off.

FORMATTING IS EVERYTHING!