Stop Telling Me How To Be A Widow

Before you start tossing around the “H” word ― hussy, the brazen variety ― let me assure you that I deeply loved the man I was married to. But 10 days after his death last month, I became that cliche: The new widow who runs out and buys a hot red car. This car, she’s a beauty. She came fully equipped with all those high-tech bells and whistles; she listens to my voice and actually does what I tell her ― something my late husband, rest his soul, never did with any regularity. She has a panoramic sunroof that highlights the red in my hair and hell, she even parallel parks herself so that I won’t get stressed out having to do it. I first laid eyes on this red bad girl around New Year’s when my husband was in a nursing home. The kids and I were breaking up the awfulness of caregiving by stopping in at car dealerships and pretending to be in the market for a new car. And there she was. She was primping and staring at her reflection in the windows of a dealership and I swear she nuzzled up against my leg and began purring. “Trust me,” she whispered in my ear, “we’re going to let the good times roll again.” But widows, we’re supposed to be the women in black, right? We are expected to hibernate inside our houses and turn down social invitations. Wait for at least a year for just about anything that is remotely fun, and for the love of all things holy, think about your kids. A widow doesn’t w...
Source: Healthy Living - The Huffington Post - Category: Consumer Health News Source Type: news