Ok, so I wrote this story in the early summer of 2008. And I just had a repeat of the same incident. Except all three of my children were in attendance. I was still annoyed…but I didn’t end up throwing myself onto my bed and weeping. So I guess I’m making progress in the grieving/healing department. Phew!
Today would have been Drew’s birthday. His 50th. Yikes. I always know I’ve come a long way in my grieving process when I’m awake for an hour or two before it dawns on me, “Today would have been _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ .” (fill in the special occasion of your choice). In the early days, months and years….I’d live in dread of the upcoming holiday/ anniversary/birthday, etc. Eventually, I didn’t live in dread, but what would happen was almost worse. Because I’d be going along, living my life…aware that one of these special days was approaching, but not really focusing on it. Then…BAM! ZOWIE! it would suddenly be before me and I’d just fall apart.
Dearest, most patient and forgiving reader: It feels like an eternity since I’ve penned my last blog post. Last night, however, brought an event so traumatic…so life-altering….so memorable… that I could barely keep my fingertips off of my keyboard when I finally got the chance to reflect upon it this evening.
Ahhh…I remember when my friend’s Aunt Edna used to have these out on her holiday table….next to the tiny reindeer that were hand-carved in Germany… and the sterling silver bowl filled with her festive Christmas balls. Poor Aunt Edna is no longer here, but luckily for us, her naughty salt and pepper shakers live on. And remember, please don’t save these for the holiday table…life is too short not to enjoy them all year long! *
Happy December 26th. It’s Saturday. The day after Christmas. Boxing Day, if you are a Britophile. Although, sadly, I recently learned that Boxing Day is apparently moved to Monday if the 26th falls on a weekend. A pity…but we shall still pretend it’s today, for the sake of this posting.
Since my husband Drew’s untimely death…
(which was very inconvenient and against my direct orders, I might add) I have spent an inordinate number of hours pondering what, indeed, is truly sacred. Perhaps it was because he died at Christmas. I mean, it is difficult to reconcile the death of your soul mate with the simultaneous celebration of the birth of a man whose press release says he is the Son of God. Then you throw Santa Claus and mistletoe into the mix…and you can start to imagine why a woman would need to do some serious pondering in regard to life, love, death and religion. And what is deemed hallowed…and inviolate.
DEAREST (and most patient) READER:
It has been a busy month for me. The world of widowhood, dating and single parenting has, as usual, caused me to lose track of time. A month since my last posting? Goodness! But all has not been for naught…as I have come back rejuvenated and filled to the brim with deep thoughts and brilliantly helpful tips!
I am widowed. Which is why I am here (see my blog title). I am also dating. Which is why I am on sites like Match.com. Today, I was talking with a fellow (that sounds wrong) widow. We were talking about men. About dating them, mostly. She was feeling odd about the prospect of dating someone younger than herself. I could not immediately even grasp what she was saying. I mean, I myself have never experienced that “odd” feeling in relation to dating younger men. What other kind of men are there?? Older ones, I guess. And what exactly is the draw…? Maturity? Some brand of “fatherly-ness?” I suppose that’s attractive to some women. I don’t know. What? You throw his E.D. issues in the bucket with the fact that your breasts aren’t as perky as they once were, stir…and everyone feels equal? I just don’t see it. I mean, when I was in college and fell head-over-heels for my late husband, I thought it was kind of sweet that he was 1.5 years my senior. One and a half years seemed perfect. But let’s get real, my friends… I was 19 when we started dating in earnest. He was 20…and a HALF. What’s the big difference? There is none. Men are a bit less mature than women at that age…so it all balances out nicely. He could have been ten years older than me and it still would have seemed perfectly perfect. WHEN I WAS 19.
Known to many of us winter daters as: S.A.D.D.
So, here I am. Spring. A new season. A new beginning. As a widow, it also often makes me a bit melancholy. I remember the first spring after Drew died. Six springs ago…but it feels like far fewer. I saw the daffodils peeking up through the soil, and it hit me all at once and without warning: ”It’s spring. And he’s not here.” ”How could he not be here?” I thought, as tears trickled down my cheeks. Well, that’s a different topic, for a different day. Today’s topic is a bit lighter. I want to talk about men. Seasonal men, in particular. And disorders.
Happy second day of March, 2009. It is snow day #4. I know this, because I opened my laptop early this morning to find cheerful emails from all manner of school administrators making me aware of this fact. It is Monday. I just spent 2.5 days with my beloved children… and now we are given even more time to bond. This wouldn’t be so terrible, but for the fact that this *surprise!* three day weekend comes a mere 7 days after a February school vacation that turned into an extended funfest due to an additional day of lifelong learning lost to snow. Nine days of vacation…only to be capped off by a snow day last Monday.
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