With the coast of Maine.
With the coast of Maine.
These are the days that try men’s souls. And women’s.
I speak not of our nation’s economic woes, nor of the mountains of snow threatening to collapse our roofs. No, ladies and gentlemen, I speak of the days leading up to Valentine’s Day.
A few months ago, I realized how much of my life force was being sucked out of me by dating the wrong men. And, sometimes, dating the SAME wrong men more than once! Shocking, I know, in light of my “Wash, Rinse, Repeat” dating story… but yes, dear reader, even I make errors in judgment. This realization led me to go on a “Dating Hiatus”….something I’ve done before, but have never really done wholeheartedly…and for the right reasons. Before, I’d say something like, “I should really stop dating and concentrate on my work and my children.” Of course, after 3 weeks of no dinners out (and, even more distressing, no kissing and/or sex)…I would always cave. Probably because I didn’t REALLY mean it when I said I should stop dating. In reality, I still had my heart set on finding the right man. Finding someone to fill the void left when I lost Drew. I still felt that the rest of my life wouldn’t make sense without that puzzle piece being replaced.
There are two sounds that can simultaneously awaken me from a deep sleep…and strike fear into my heart. The first is the sound of a gargantuan pine tree falling onto my house (see my “Oh Tannenbaum” blog post from the end of February). The second is the sound of a child. Vomiting. IN MY BED.
(I may have written this story a few years ago…but it continues to ring true, dear readers!)
After being involved in a variety of dating situations with a variety of men…and after experiencing a variety of levels of frustration…I eventually realized something that was rather disturbing. And very, very sad. Many men have been married…many men have ended up divorced…yet, many of these men have never really been in love. They got married, but they weren’t head-over-heels, madly and passionately in love. Never. Not even on their wedding day. This was shocking to me. Truly. I suppose I just always imagined that all people felt the way that Drew and I felt about one another when we tied the proverbial knot.
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.
Turn that frown upside-down with a frothy cappuccino….served in your own very special white, feathered mug! This elegant mug comes from the estate of Madame Monique Le Bateau…a ballerina who, in her final years, could no longer perform en pointe due to an abundance of bunion surgery. Her Russian lover, Vladimir, told me that the loss of his soul mate has made it too painful to drink his vodka from this cup, but he begged me to find someone who would cherish it. Could that someone be you? *
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.