Dating after your husband dies
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I am waiting for the proverbial poop to hit the fan. They can simply spy through the blinds across the street or stalk her house at all hours of the night pretending they were “just stopping by to say hi”.
I sit back down, slide my laptop over, hit refresh. In a world of social media and worldwide gossip, neighbours no longer need to walk three miles to gossip about the love life of the local widow.
I wipe my slick palms against the thigh of my jeans, gnawing nervously on my thumb’s shredded hang nail. What’s it like to date again after you are widowed? And, to be frank, I had zero interest in ever being in it again. I fumbled, made some mistakes, and, yes, had some fun too.
So for all of you aching to know and just too , scared to ask, I will now attempt to answer all those taboo questions with as much honesty as I can muster. Like many widows out there, I was out of the dating game for a long, long time. I bypassed the entire “dating” phase of life and essentially went straight from high school to married so learning to cope with members of the opposite sex in a dating situation was beyond my comprehension at first.
This was always a big fear of mine, something I sweated about for weeks leading up to our wedding.
In the end, it took some time and some sexy new bras to get me enjoying it instead of dreading it. This is probably the question every widow will hear some variation of at some point or another.
No, and this is probably my least favorite question.
It actually makes my skin crawl whenever somebody asks this one.
You can’t love someone all your life, whispering their name out loud and in your thoughts a thousand times a day without inevitably letting it slip out. It did, however, make me more forgiving of my poor mother who was constantly trying to keep her five kids’ names straight.
Do you ever think about your husband when you are with him?
I still kept some of Craig’s clothes (now integrated into my own wardrobe) and several boxes of his awards, comic books, and other memorabilia. Somehow they always ended up finding their way back onto my left hand.