I LOVE this card.
The fact that I have it taped to one of the glass panes of my kitchen door goes a long way in explaining why my house was not chosen for the celebrated “Cape Elizabeth Kitchen Tour” which will be taking place in a few short weeks.
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.
(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.
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.
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.
I never thought of myself as having a great behind. I mean, I always knew I had a nice body…but, as a woman who recalls having once layered 8 pair of cotton underwear under her jeans (at age 13) before going to dinner at some friend of the family’s house because they had a cute son her age and she wanted her derriere to appear, more, well…prevalent…let’s just say that I never thought of my ass as my greatest asset.
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.
All chipper and bright. Maids-a-milking and chicks dancing and drummer dudes drumming. Sounds like a real party! And that poor partridge, stuck up there in that pear tree, afraid to come down lest he be attacked by the three horny French Hens. Or are they French horns? No matter. And then there are the five golden rings. Ahhh, yes. The rings. Which make me think of wedding rings. And weddings. And marriage. And MY marriage. And my husband. And the fact that he is now my DEAD husband. And the tragedy that was his death by pancreatic cancer, on the magically beautiful snowy morning after Christmas. Circa 2002. Sad is a word that does that Christmas no justice. Yes. How I have always loved Christmas.
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