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.
In grief, as in dog walking, one must ask: ”Is putting the poop in a plastic bag & tossing it really the wisest way to deal with it?”
During the April school break, I took my three children on one of our spontaneous, ill-planned, overnight “adventures.” This time, we headed up the coast. Along the way, we enjoyed some snooping around in antique shops, consumed the requisite fried seafood and ice cream treats…and then we did what every American family does to end the day on a happy vacation note. We zipped into a weathered, old cemetery for a quick bit of fun.
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.
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.