Get out!

Very soon after S’s death, people started talking to me about dating. The first was a woman named Heidi from the Social Security Administration. I was on a long phone call with her, setting up benefits for the kids. There were some lulls in the official business as she waited for the computer system to respond, so we got a little chatty.

“When you’re ready to get back out there, you better get yourself a big ol’ can of clown spray,” she advised me. “Because there’s a lot of clowns out there!”

Really? I had just given her my husband’s date of death, and it was only about 10 days ago at that point.

Next was the attorney who was helping me set up my will, trust, power of attorney, etc. I think he’s only about 15 years older than me, but a bit of an anachronism. He uses carbon paper.

“You’re a cute girl. You’ll marry again,” he said with conviction.

At 42 and newly widowed, I can hardly be considered a cute girl by any standard. Nevertheless, he told me that when I marry again, I will need a prenuptial agreement. And on a personal note, he told me how to select my next mate.

“You don’t want to be his nurse and you don’t want to be his purse.”

My reaction to these early transgressors was to mentally stick my fingers in my ears and say, “la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la.”

When my therapist raised the issue, I couldn’t really do that – they frown on that sort of thing in therapy. So I told her that I wasn’t opposed to the idea in theory, eventually, but was far from being able to imagine it in practice.

Now that almost three months have passed, the limits of my imagination stretch to the point of being able to envision eating dinner at a restaurant with someone who doesn’t always order chicken fingers and fries. So far that person is faceless, and might well be a girlfriend. I just know that sometime soon, for my kids' sake and my own, I need to get out.