What I Wore to My Divorce

Deciding what to wear to my wedding was infinitely easier than deciding what to wear to my divorce. The first wedding dress I tried on was The One, an Elizabeth Fillmore “Guinevere” with gauntlet-ish sleeves (think romantic, not Renaissance faire). When my best male girlfriend Manfred saw it on me, he whispered, simply, “Inevitable.” Perhaps as inevitable as the divorce.

My heart had been humbled, but not my fashion sense. Obsessing over what to wear to my divorce may seem jejune, but the truth is my literal appearance was the only thing I could control about my court appearance. Of course, I knew it would be heart-wrenching to see my husband; but I had no idea what he or the judge would say or do. Most disconcertingly, I had no idea about what I would say or do. So the best I could do was plan an outfit.

To see what Faith and several celebrities wore to their divorces, click here.

I didn’t need to look impecunious, because I wasn’t asking even for a cent: We didn’t have a child or property to tussle over; we never even shared a phone number or mailing address. (Are you beginning to sniff out the problems?) I came into the marriage with my own diamonds, and I left with them.

But I did need to look good. I’m in New York and he’s in L.A., and we hadn’t seen each other for 10 months—which is a very long time when you’ve been together for 10 years. And I needed to look thin. I’d given that man the thinnest years of my life. I needed a dress that said, “Yo, buddy, this is what you’re missing ... um, even though you’ve informed our mutual friends that your girlfriend, who is 10 years younger than I am, is a bathing suit model.”

For weeks I ran through a mental inventory of my closet. At first, I thought of choosing a reliable favorite, but I didn’t want to put any bad juju on it. I didn’t want to have to smudge a DVF wrap dress with sage. Or did I want to wear something new—to christen it and forever make it The Divorce Dress? Should I hit Zara and buy something that looks good but is disposable—or was that too much of a metaphor for our marriage?

I couldn’t decide on my own, so I solicited suggestions from my family and friends.

Lots of people warned me not to wear black—except my father, who encouraged it because, he pronounced, “This puppy is finally dead.” My brother texted me: “Not cheap L.A. very classy N.Y. Sexy but smart, like Law and Order! Step out of court often to take calls.” My other brother’s text read: “Something fabulous, Sex and the City, maybe red! Great hair.” (One brother is straight and the other is gay. I report; you decide.)

Divorce court seemed to inspire ‘40s-era fashion fantasies in my girlfriends, not only for me, but for themselves. Jo, a producer, cast me as a noir heroine and insisted I stand in front of the judge with my face covered dramatically in a black veil. Nothing was going to stop my actor girlfriends Kathleen, Julie Ann, and April from buying enormous hats and long gloves and smoldering in the back of the courtroom … except, respectively, dropping the kids off at school and standing in for Jenna Elfman. (This is L.A.)

After all that counsel, I felt drawn to a Black Halo dress I’d bought to appear on The O’Reilly Factor. Very tight, indigo denim—posh but tough. I’d taken on an intractable man in that dress! But I changed my mind during a late-night packing episode when I was trying on different outfits. Remember the scene in the Sex and the City movie when Carrie tries on her old crazy clothes in front of her girlfriends and they have a chicktastic time? It was like that. Only I was alone, without music, and it was less rom-com montage-y than incredibly pathetic.

In the end—at the end—here’s what I wore: a Nanette Lepore silk dress with a black, tan, and purple pattern that simultaneously evokes leopard print and peacock feathers—an appropriate, yin-yang combination. I’d worn it once before to famed Napa Valley gastrono-mecca The French Laundry, and I found the faint smell of lavender and truffles quite soothing.