Typically, October through December are my favorite months of the year, but not the year my marriage ended. We broke up in September, and while I don’t remember much from the following months, the archives (my journal) suggest I didn’t enjoy them: In early November, I cried at the dentist. A week later, I had the stomach flu. Then it got worse: The holiday season rolled around. I flew to see my family in Minnesota and turned 35. The next day, on Thanksgiving, I sat between my parents for the annual family photo while my (younger) married siblings stood with their wives behind us. Christmas was bleaker still: I stayed home alone in Brooklyn and watched reality TV all day. On New Year’s Eve, my journal notes only that I “finally finished the goddamn ski lounge puzzle.” Again — I have no memo

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