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The art of newly single dressing is a Law of Dianes—Diane Keaton, Diahann Carroll, Princess Di, Diana Ross—notoriously untethered icons whose effortless glam ranges from intellectual chic to gala spectacular. No matter the look, the theme is always clear: I did this all myself. I don’t need a partner.

I wanted to look like a mid-40s divorcée vacationing in Maine who owned a drawer full of designer sunglasses that some soon-to-be-ex was still paying for. I wanted to be drenched in unwrinkled bleached linen from head to heel. But I was 31. I’d comfortably settled into the status of my married wardrobe—a collection of skinny jeans and dinner host dresses—and a life I thought was finally beginning; I was not prepared for this new ending. And definitely not new clothes. I was living in Bloomington, Indiana. We had a T.J.Maxx and one boutique. So I settled for a bold substitute: the muumuu.

The muumuu is the epitome of rich-auntie chic. I’d learned this from my mother. For years, she and every other rich-auntie-vibes adult I knew stumbled around the house on weekends in a big square sheet of fabric with two seams, prancing around, turning pancakes, listening to Patti LaBelle.

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“I’m getting a divorce,” I announced my first night out at a bar, “and I want to walk around like nothing’s touching me.” I did. It was suffocating enough to be breaking up—I didn’t need anything constricting my body. Bloomington’s one cute boutique had a clothes rack of discount lounge wear. I purchased one caftan. Then another. Then finally I just subscribed to my favorite muumuu designer’s store on Etsy. I became such a good client, she continued to send me random personal DMs for years. “Hey, girl, how’s that fabulous life alone treating you?” Okay, not that exactly—but messages that carried the same sentiment. Our exchanges let me celebrate the zest for living I’d found in my clothes.

“I’m getting a divorce,” I announced my first night out at a bar, “and I want to walk around like nothing’s touching me.”

While married, I adhered to a dress code that suited my husband’s appetites. Not in a Sister Wives kind of way, but in a “let’s keep this person I’m in love with happy by shifting my tastes to fit his” way. In turn, I forbade him to choose his own shorts, sweaters, or underwear. But my dressing rules were about leveling him up. His preferences were designed to make me fit in. He’d pick out floral-print miniskirts for date nights or a buffalo-plaid button-down for watching the game. I’d never choose these things for myself. But during my marriage, I’d lost sight of a sense of style that was solely a reflection of me. I was now a reflection of our family. I wanted to look like a wife he was proud of. Having picked out parts of each other’s outfits, we’d hold hands at parties joking about wearing “the world’s tiniest handcuff” as a fashion statement. I wasn’t unhappy. But the minute I took off my wedding band, I didn’t want to look like a “wife” anymore.

Reflecting back, my choice of a muumuu to celebrate my Summer of Newly Singlehood made sense. I adopted the luxurious look my mother and her friends kept behind closed doors for “hen parties” and staycations in their houses, but I took it outside—to the open world— where it belonged. I was free—my peach and mangoes joyously bobbing along, unfettered, under one big piece of fabric.

“I hear swimsuit cover-ups are really in this year,” said a friend at group brunch when I showed up in my muumuu, trying to help me out. I raised an eyebrow. Yes, I wanted to look like Diane Lane on vacation, but I wanted to be very clear I wasn’t hiding anything. I’d done plenty of that in my marriage—all the primping, preening, and shaving to be a perfect mate. All the lessons I’d absorbed from my mother: Keep it together, or he’ll cheat on you. I did. It didn’t matter. And now, it was—delightfully—too late.

This was my time of carefree elegance. This was my time of showing up and showing out. There would be no arduous run across the scorching surface of the sand so I could please a man, trying to appear sexy while being battered down by the couples ocean. I was done with all those waves of marital contrition. Bring me a cocktail. And maybe a spousal support agreement. I crossed my legs. I reapplied my one pair of designer sunglasses. I said to my friend: “I’m sorry, darling, this is not a ‘cover-up,’ this is an outfit.” I poured myself a mimosa—the only heavy lifting my look was good for.

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Illustration by Louisa Cannell.