It was 2015. The shitshow of my divorce was unraveling, one humiliating, deranged episode at a time. My life was kind of like a season of Fleabag, with knowing glances thrown at the camera and Emmy-worthy eye-rolling on my part.

Before my ex moved out, I got hit (ever so lightly, tapped) by a car while on my bike. A young woman made an ill-conceived U-turn in the middle of the intersection of Main Street and Pacific Street. I saw her heading right toward me and hopped off my bike just as she hit it. It was not a big deal, but I was sore.

I was a member at Equinox in Santa Monica at the time. I had never set foot in their fancy spa on the fourth floor, but I decided it was time to book a massage.

Though the ex had not moved out yet, on a scale of one to Fukushima, the marriage was near full meltdown. I was kind of like the violinists on the Titanic, earnestly playing away, believing in him, in us, in our ridiculous couple’s therapy where I barely got a word in edgewise while he held my hand and told the therapist how much we loved each other (I am not making that up). The ship was sinking fast, but I clung to my barnacle-covered denial for dear life.

So, as I pushed these thoughts out of my mind and focused on the physical pain I was experiencing in my lower back, the receptionist told me my masseur was running late and was due in at any moment. Around that time, I turned to see this Golden God walk in. He took his helmet off, releasing his long, chestnut hair that hit the middle of his back, and walked straight toward me. This guy was tall, lean, and unapproachably handsome, but then he broke out into a sweet, disarming smile.

“Maddie?”

“Yes.”

“Hey, so sorry I’m late. Chance.”

What did he mean? Take a chance? Leave it all up to Chance? The receptionist saved me from my dolted confusion. “Oh, Chance is here now! Perfect.”

“Thank God I got hit by a car,” was all I could think.

Recovering from my happy shock, I asked if he was named after Chance the Gardener, and right away realized what a decades-old reference this was. Way to out myself as a 49-year-old.

“Actually my dad is a John Wayne fan, so I was named after Chance Buckman, from Hellfighters.”

Dammit, that was cool. He was cool and sweet and engaging. And he had amazing, healing hands.

And that is how Chance became my masseur. I saw him weekly at Equinox and when he left Equinox and moved on to random spots in private studios and back houses in Venice and then Topanga Canyon, I followed him there.

At this point in my divorce drama, the ex had moved out. I slept alone in our king-size bed with our two gassy mutts, contemplating the slo-mo metaphoric house falling down around me. We were going to list the house I loved, sell it, and pay the IRS a portion of what my ex owed them. The kids were crushed over our separation and the news that we would be selling the house. I was sad and lonely, sort of sitting in the rubble of the decayed marriage. Lovely wedding photos cruelly hung on the walls all around me.

So I stalked Chance on Facebook, or as my friend Pete calls it, FacePlant. Of course Chance was an extreme adventurer, climbing mountains in the Himalayas, exploring caves in Utah, and trailblazing the backroads of Joshua Tree in a beat-up jeep. And the topper — he was in a band. The cliche was complete.

The friending and flirting started out fairly harmlessly. Anyone with a band they’re promoting is happy to have another fan. I liked a few of his photos. I marked myself as “going” to one of his gigs in San Francisco, knowing full well I would more likely be driving an SUV full of twelve year-olds to Raging Waters. But the fantasy was fun.

So for all of you who are waiting for the scene where I grabbed his goods inappropriately, alas, those things only happened in my dreams. What happened, in reality, is that one night after my second or third glass of Rodney Strong, I sexted him. It was nothing too graphic or sordid, but yeah, that happened. I had stalked him online long enough and self-control and good judgment about life choices went out the window.

What followed was an immediate shutting me down, which of course, as a professional masseur, was completely understandable. I should know that he could and would never cross that line. Also, he had a girlfriend. I was kinda mortified, knowing that I shocked him with my impropriety and made him feel uncomfortable.

But what a lucky so-and-so this woman was, Chance’s girlfriend. When I pried into his Facebook, there were several candidates to choose from…was it this tawny, blonde hiking partner or the lovely, freckled 20-something with long, red hair? O.K. It was time for me to shut the laptop and get a hobby that did not involve stalking men that were young enough to be my child.

Probably the best thing to come from the whole episode was the belly laugh my writing partner Sarah and I got from me retelling it and her bursting out in hysterical laughter. It just never got old. I had my Diane Lane moment and it was a spectacular fail. But those massages (as UN X-rated as they were) at the studio in Topanga Canyon were essential fixes for what ailed me physically and emotionally. Even though there was nothing romantic in his touch, it was nonetheless healing just to have a man’s hands on my body.

Happily, my humiliation served as ripe grist for the mill for one of the Hallmark romances Sarah and I were writing. We hadn’t sold any of our scripts yet, but the next year we would option our first romance to a producer who had a track record creating dozens of cheesy Hallmark movies, so I was proud to be able to milk my own pathetic experiences for the sake of entertaining the public.

My mom always says living well is the best revenge. And in the TV writing world, there is a saying: “tragedy + time=comedy.” My variation on that would now be “tragedy+time=Hallmark.” I’m ready to milk every cringe-worthy episode of the last five years and laugh all the way to the bank.