I’ve decided that I’m ready to be a dependent again.
Now, I don’t mean that in the gold-digging way that it sounds. You all don’t need to worry that someday you’ll see me on Real Housewives of Denver or something (although that would make for some riveting TV). I just mean that I’m ready to be able to depend on someone again.
I’ve always thought of myself as a pretty independent person. I’ve always kind of done my own thing, had my own opinions about stuff, and could very easily get into a mood where I really don’t care what people think.
Even when I was married, I felt like I was independent. I was the first one to run off and get married at the ripe, old age of 20. For awhile I had a pretty successful career. I was the first one to have a kid. And I was the first one who quit work and actually stayed home with my children.
Now, some people would choose to think of this as “dependent” because my husband was the primary breadwinner. But those of you who have chosen to stay home with your kids, know that it takes a certain amount of courage to withstand those judgmental looks from the other people around you because you’ve given up your career. Actually…we all pretty much get those judgmental looks. Because even if you decide to go back to work, that means you’re neglecting your kids.
Am I right? Or am I right.
Anyway, I’ve pretty much always led the life I wanted to and in the process I confused this with independence. In reality, living the life you want to live and doing what feels right isn’t actually independence. It’s should just be considered…life.
When I quit my job, most of my friends were pretty supportive, some were even admiring. Because after they all started having kids, they understood how strong you have to be to stay at home with a child who sleeps during the day, is up all night, doesn’t talk, and has blowouts at inopportune times all day, every day. This phase only gets replaced by a child who talks all the time, never sleeps, and still has to use the bathroom at inopportune times. Like when you’re 12 deep in the line at Wal-Mart or stuck in traffic on the highway. After awhile, going to work seems like a break.
Boy…we didn’t see that coming in our early 20s, did we?
A few of my friends saw my staying at home as a huge risk. What if my husband should lose his job? What would we do then? How would we make it? But since life had been pretty good to me up until that point and the economy hadn’t tanked yet, I chose to believe that that would probably never happen. And if it did, I knew my husband well enough to know that he would do anything, take any job, to keep us going. And if I needed to, I knew I would do the same.
Who would have thought, years later, that just losing a job would have been something I would have welcomed, given the alternative?
In the comforting stupidity of youth, most of us were naïve enough to believe that really bad things didn’t happen to us. You remember how in your teens you were pretty much invincible? Well, in your 20s, you’re just starting to realize that you aren’t. And your 30s are when you start taking the stairs a little bit more carefully, instead of jumping down the last 5 (in case you should hurt yourself). You don’t run and slide on the ice because if you break something and don’t show up the next day for work you won’t get paid, so you tip-toe over it. And you start realizing the true implications of a DUI and that it’s something to be embarrassed about (not bragged about, as it would have been in your younger, wilder days) so you always travel with a DD.
When my husband died in my early 30s, I think I became the first, true wake-up call to my friends that bad things could happen inside our circle. My closest friends started to really check up on what they had for life insurance and disability. Everyone started to give their significant other one extra hug in the morning, just in case. And I started to get some really sad looks because I had been a “dependent” all those years and what in the heck was I going to do now??
I never really knew what it meant to be truly independent until I was forced into it by the death of my husband. But the definition of "independence" has changed for me over the years. The truth is, I’ve come to know myself well enough, that if I need to make something happen, I make it happen. I may not be able to do everything and do it well, but I can make a pretty good stab at it. My breakfast dishes don’t get done until 5 PM, but at least everyone got fed.
I’m in a “glass is half full” kind of mood today. Go with me here.
Where my dependence on my husband was, was in the partnership and friendship we had. Having that person ask about my day. Having someone to call and share news with…good, bad, or otherwise. Having that extension of me and knowing that there was someone out there who cared as much about what happened in my life as I did…’cause it was his life too.
It had absolutely nothing to do with who made the most money.
I’ve realized since he’s been gone, that being dependent takes a lot more guts than being independent. It takes trust. It takes faith. Having the courage to lean on someone else. And having the strength to hold them up as well.
Showing posts with label independence. Show all posts
Showing posts with label independence. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
It's Time To Pull On Your Tights And Be Your Own Superhero
One of the hardest things for me to accomplish in my adult life has been…well…being an adult. I feel like I kind of flowed from one somewhat dependent situation into another. By getting married so young I went straight from my parents’ house to my husband’s house. Oh, sure, I worked, but I always had other people to depend on.
I guess one could say that I finally grew up in my 30s. And believe me…I was a reluctant adult. I didn’t want to be a role model to three young, impressionable minds. And believe me…if you ever met me…you wouldn’t want me to either.
Gulp.
One of the most startling things for me to come to grips with, when I found myself husbandless, was how scared I was. I know we all go through the usual feelings of fear when we are thrown into the deep end of life, but I was really scared. There is something to be said for having someone you can depend on from birth and, until that point, I had been covered.
Not only did I grow up with a great family, I had the fortunate experience of being married to the smartest, handiest person I’ve ever known. I knew that if the world should come to a crashing halt, my husband would be out in the backyard with a trap he had fashioned out of curly ribbon and paperclips to catch us some dinner. I knew that if we faced a gas crises and we had an emergency, my husband would be in the garage making an alternate fuel source out of garbage like they did in “Back to the Future.” I knew that if I had a flat tire, I had someone I could call.
Now, we have all heard from our well-intentioned friends and family how we’re not alone and that they are there to support us. And I whole-heartedly agree with that…to a point.
But are our friends as worried about our mortgage as we are? Are our families going to make the decision for us to either put our children at respiratory risk from H1N1 or chance facial paralysis from a vaccine that hasn’t been completely tested yet? Is there anyone else around all the time to just hand us a roll of toilet paper when we need it in an emergency?
The realistic answer to these questions is no. It doesn’t make them bad friends. It doesn’t mean our families don’t care enough. And it doesn’t mean that you have to worry about drip-drying for the rest of you life. It means that we’re adults. As bad as that sucks. And in some situations…we’re kind of on our own.
Not long after my husband died, my fear got to the point where I had to stop watching the news. I just knew that the serial killer on the loose in Washington D.C. would somehow find his way to my little area in the suburbs of Colorado. I couldn’t figure out where in the world I would store all of the plastic and Duct Tape I would need in the event of chemical warfare. And I knew I would need more jars than Wal-Mart carried to bury my retirement fund in the backyard in case of a complete market collapse.
That was the peak of my paranoia. That’s also when I started subscribing to US Weekly instead of The Denver Post.
I can’t actually tell you the moment when my anxiety started to subside. Maybe it was when my kids made it through the school year without more than the common cold. Maybe it was when I realized that my brilliant Certified Financial Planner (my sister) wasn’t about to let me lose everything (probably because she knew I’d show up on her doorstep with sleeping bags and my three kids). And maybe it was when I started to comprehend that even though I may not be as smart or as handy as my husband, I could hold my own. I can even do some pretty nifty things with curly ribbon.
Knowing you can depend on yourself when the going gets tough is a great feeling. And it’s a feeling that has to be earned…it doesn’t just happen overnight. For those of you who have had it together a lot longer than I have, you know what I’m talking about. And it’s within us all to be the person we depend on the most. I’ve even gotten confident enough that I can read the paper every now and then.
Actually, the truth of it is, the stories in US about gargantuan boob jobs are starting to get a little scarier to me than the state of the market and the possibility of a chemical attack.
© Catherine Tidd 2010
Friday, April 30, 2010
I Got This
We’ve all been faced with things we don’t know how to do. It happens to everyone throughout our entire lives. The thing is that once you’ve been married for awhile, you tend to develop roles within your marriage. Like, I cleaned the bathrooms while my husband worked on the car. I made the hot cocoa for the kids while he blew out the snow on the driveway. I got him a beer while he accidentally made beef jerky on the grill.
I know it all sounds very June Cleaver, but what can I say?
Once that person who filled half the roles in your life is suddenly gone, it’s hard to tackle those tasks. But I’m here to tell you that once you start trying, there is a certain sense of empowerment that goes along with getting the man work done.
Take mowing. I had never mowed a lawn before in my life before my husband died. Never even started the damn thing. In fact, in my family, female mowing was frowned upon, especially by my grandmother. I don’t know why, but she seemed to take it as a personal offense every time she would see some woman outside sweating it out with her mower. She used to say, “I just want to get out of the car and smack her!”
So as you can imagine, I was brought up not knowing the first thing about lawn maintenance.
I don’t know about you, but after my husband died, I went through a phase where I just wanted to be able to do everything he did. I really wanted to try and fill his shoes in every possible way. I wanted to learn how to change my oil, put an entire lift kit on a Jeep, and be on a first name basis with every tool in my garage. And I thought the best way to get myself on the path to Manland was to learn how to mow.
So, at the age of 31, I ended up in my backyard with my dad giving me my first lesson on mowing. I’m sure it was a thrill for him, since he raised 2 girls, to finally be able to teach this to someone. Actually, now that I think back on it, he may have been a little nervous about me taking on this chore because he must have asked me 5 times, “Are you sure you don’t want to call a service?”
My mother tried to talk me out of it by convincing me that by mowing my own lawn, I was putting my kids in danger. She would say, “What happens if you run over a rock and it goes flying out of the mower?”
I have heard of these accidents and I don’t doubt that they happen. But I’m thinking my chances are pretty slim that my kids are going to die from a flying mower rock. As I later learned, I was in more danger of knocking myself unconscious on a tree branch I didn’t see because of my hat and sunglasses than injuring an innocent child. (Because of these incidents, my neighbors love to crack open a beer, sit on their porches, and watch me mow. Endless hours of summer entertainment.)
Anyway, after my dad taught me how to start the mower and get it moving, I felt this sense of euphoria. I could do this! I didn’t need a lawn service. I didn’t have to get married immediately because I couldn’t cut my own grass. I didn’t have to get suckered by the 10 year old down the street. I’m a modern woman…watch me mow!
And then it occurred to me. This is not that hard.
Ladies, if your husband has been selling you the line that you need to go clean the entire house because he has to go out and mow…I’m afraid I’m here to burst your bubble. ‘Cause what you do is pull a string and walk back and forth. And the best part about it is that it’s loud and you can’t hear a thing. Now that I’m a single mother, I look at mowing as a short vacation every Saturday from the screaming and tattling that’s going on inside my house.
But as empowering as walking behind a piece of machinery is, there is still a part of me that deep down considers this a man’s job. I still miss those golden Saturday afternoons when I was inside, working on the house, listening to the comforting sound of my husband mowing the lawn. So as my son watches me from the porch go back and forth and back and forth, I have only one thought that comes to mind.
Buddy…someday it’s going to be you out here.
For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!
© Catherine Tidd 2010
I know it all sounds very June Cleaver, but what can I say?
Once that person who filled half the roles in your life is suddenly gone, it’s hard to tackle those tasks. But I’m here to tell you that once you start trying, there is a certain sense of empowerment that goes along with getting the man work done.
Take mowing. I had never mowed a lawn before in my life before my husband died. Never even started the damn thing. In fact, in my family, female mowing was frowned upon, especially by my grandmother. I don’t know why, but she seemed to take it as a personal offense every time she would see some woman outside sweating it out with her mower. She used to say, “I just want to get out of the car and smack her!”
So as you can imagine, I was brought up not knowing the first thing about lawn maintenance.
I don’t know about you, but after my husband died, I went through a phase where I just wanted to be able to do everything he did. I really wanted to try and fill his shoes in every possible way. I wanted to learn how to change my oil, put an entire lift kit on a Jeep, and be on a first name basis with every tool in my garage. And I thought the best way to get myself on the path to Manland was to learn how to mow.
So, at the age of 31, I ended up in my backyard with my dad giving me my first lesson on mowing. I’m sure it was a thrill for him, since he raised 2 girls, to finally be able to teach this to someone. Actually, now that I think back on it, he may have been a little nervous about me taking on this chore because he must have asked me 5 times, “Are you sure you don’t want to call a service?”
My mother tried to talk me out of it by convincing me that by mowing my own lawn, I was putting my kids in danger. She would say, “What happens if you run over a rock and it goes flying out of the mower?”
I have heard of these accidents and I don’t doubt that they happen. But I’m thinking my chances are pretty slim that my kids are going to die from a flying mower rock. As I later learned, I was in more danger of knocking myself unconscious on a tree branch I didn’t see because of my hat and sunglasses than injuring an innocent child. (Because of these incidents, my neighbors love to crack open a beer, sit on their porches, and watch me mow. Endless hours of summer entertainment.)
Anyway, after my dad taught me how to start the mower and get it moving, I felt this sense of euphoria. I could do this! I didn’t need a lawn service. I didn’t have to get married immediately because I couldn’t cut my own grass. I didn’t have to get suckered by the 10 year old down the street. I’m a modern woman…watch me mow!
And then it occurred to me. This is not that hard.
Ladies, if your husband has been selling you the line that you need to go clean the entire house because he has to go out and mow…I’m afraid I’m here to burst your bubble. ‘Cause what you do is pull a string and walk back and forth. And the best part about it is that it’s loud and you can’t hear a thing. Now that I’m a single mother, I look at mowing as a short vacation every Saturday from the screaming and tattling that’s going on inside my house.
But as empowering as walking behind a piece of machinery is, there is still a part of me that deep down considers this a man’s job. I still miss those golden Saturday afternoons when I was inside, working on the house, listening to the comforting sound of my husband mowing the lawn. So as my son watches me from the porch go back and forth and back and forth, I have only one thought that comes to mind.
Buddy…someday it’s going to be you out here.
For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!
© Catherine Tidd 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
All the Single Ladies...Do We WANT To Put A Ring On It?
Ahhh…dating. Sooner or later this becomes every widow’s favorite topic with other widows. And there is a very good reason for this: Because we feel like it’s unacceptable to talk about it outside of the herd.
But I can guarantee you that, for most widows, it’s one of the first things we think about after our husbands die. I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s human nature to wonder what comes next. And for those of us who suddenly find ourselves involuntarily single, we want to know: Am I supposed to start dating? When is it too soon to start dating? What will people say if I start dating? What will they say if I don’t?
It’s very natural to find a mate, settle down, and have kids in our twenties. That’s why hormones were invented and why birth control is not 100% effective. I often say that I miss the stupidity of my twenties when I really didn’t know what marriage meant. I just thought it would be fun to use one of those price guns at Target. I really didn’t think the whole thing through and it didn’t occur to me that by marrying my husband when I turned 20, there was a good chance that I would be with him for 70 years.
But fate is a tricky bitch and things didn’t quite turn out that way.
Now, in my 30s and having taken the vows once before, I know full well what it means to be married and smell the same gas, watch the same do-it-yourself shows, and wake up to the same morning breath (which means that he didn’t get up with the kids so that you could sleep in) every day for the rest of my life. So, forgive me if I pause before making that leap once again.
And dating isn’t as easy as it was in my twenties. I know I’m hitting the age where 49% of all the males I know will start to get divorced thereby flooding the market, but it’s still no picnic. They all come with kids, mortgages, and potentially crazy in-laws to deal with.
Now, funny enough to the male population, I seem to come with more baggage than they do. I’ve never quite understood that. Sure, I’m dealing with a loss, but I think widows and divorcees are pretty much tied in the bitterness and “it’s not fair” department. Believe me, it’s just as hard for me to accept you with your 3 children from 3 different wives as it is you to deal with me and my deceased husband. Let it go.
And now that I’m older, I’m pickier. I mean, in my twenties I was looking for a nice rear and a decent car. Now I’m grilling my potential dates on their benefits packages and the state of their health. ‘Cause let’s face it…I don’t want to lose another one.
And finally and most importantly…after you’ve been single for awhile and you start to understand that you can handle most things on your own, you start asking yourself, “Do I want to get married again?”
Don’t get me wrong. Marriage is great. But once you get used to sleeping right smack in the middle of your bed with no one to poke because he’s snoring so loud, it’s hard to go back. It would be nice to have someone to bounce the big decisions off of, but on the flip side, you don’t have to ask anyone their opinion on anything. You don’t have to shave. You don’t have to wonder when he’s going to notice that huge-ass dent in your car. If you gain 500 lbs. no one else is going to be irritated about that other than you.
Now, I know this sounds cynical and I really don’t mean for it to. But for those of us who got married in our twenties and had only the slightest taste of independence…well, that’s pretty hard to give up now. And the problem is that we’d be giving it up to start all over again. I mean, it took me 11 years to mold my husband into the man I knew he would want to be. And now, when I go out on a date, I can say within the first 20 minutes, “Nope. I don’t have the energy to train that one.” And then I go home and flop myself right smack in the middle of my bed with hairy legs and a box of chocolate.
Hey…it’s not perfect. But in my experience, Russell Stover has never snored.
For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!
© Catherine Tidd 2010
But I can guarantee you that, for most widows, it’s one of the first things we think about after our husbands die. I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s human nature to wonder what comes next. And for those of us who suddenly find ourselves involuntarily single, we want to know: Am I supposed to start dating? When is it too soon to start dating? What will people say if I start dating? What will they say if I don’t?
It’s very natural to find a mate, settle down, and have kids in our twenties. That’s why hormones were invented and why birth control is not 100% effective. I often say that I miss the stupidity of my twenties when I really didn’t know what marriage meant. I just thought it would be fun to use one of those price guns at Target. I really didn’t think the whole thing through and it didn’t occur to me that by marrying my husband when I turned 20, there was a good chance that I would be with him for 70 years.
But fate is a tricky bitch and things didn’t quite turn out that way.
Now, in my 30s and having taken the vows once before, I know full well what it means to be married and smell the same gas, watch the same do-it-yourself shows, and wake up to the same morning breath (which means that he didn’t get up with the kids so that you could sleep in) every day for the rest of my life. So, forgive me if I pause before making that leap once again.
And dating isn’t as easy as it was in my twenties. I know I’m hitting the age where 49% of all the males I know will start to get divorced thereby flooding the market, but it’s still no picnic. They all come with kids, mortgages, and potentially crazy in-laws to deal with.
Now, funny enough to the male population, I seem to come with more baggage than they do. I’ve never quite understood that. Sure, I’m dealing with a loss, but I think widows and divorcees are pretty much tied in the bitterness and “it’s not fair” department. Believe me, it’s just as hard for me to accept you with your 3 children from 3 different wives as it is you to deal with me and my deceased husband. Let it go.
And now that I’m older, I’m pickier. I mean, in my twenties I was looking for a nice rear and a decent car. Now I’m grilling my potential dates on their benefits packages and the state of their health. ‘Cause let’s face it…I don’t want to lose another one.
And finally and most importantly…after you’ve been single for awhile and you start to understand that you can handle most things on your own, you start asking yourself, “Do I want to get married again?”
Don’t get me wrong. Marriage is great. But once you get used to sleeping right smack in the middle of your bed with no one to poke because he’s snoring so loud, it’s hard to go back. It would be nice to have someone to bounce the big decisions off of, but on the flip side, you don’t have to ask anyone their opinion on anything. You don’t have to shave. You don’t have to wonder when he’s going to notice that huge-ass dent in your car. If you gain 500 lbs. no one else is going to be irritated about that other than you.
Now, I know this sounds cynical and I really don’t mean for it to. But for those of us who got married in our twenties and had only the slightest taste of independence…well, that’s pretty hard to give up now. And the problem is that we’d be giving it up to start all over again. I mean, it took me 11 years to mold my husband into the man I knew he would want to be. And now, when I go out on a date, I can say within the first 20 minutes, “Nope. I don’t have the energy to train that one.” And then I go home and flop myself right smack in the middle of my bed with hairy legs and a box of chocolate.
Hey…it’s not perfect. But in my experience, Russell Stover has never snored.
For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!
© Catherine Tidd 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Decision Making
Getting to the point where you can successfully make large decisions on your own after the loss of your spouse is a long road. I don't know if this is actually the case, but it seems like women who have lost their spouses have a harder time with this than men. I may be wrong, but it seems like the men are just ready to "make the decision" to get rid of the floral couch they've always hated, hang that large moose head above the fireplace, and finally put their beloved shot glass collection in a place of honor like they've always wanted to.
I'm just envisioning what my husband would be doing if the situation were reversed.
For me, after the dust settled, it seemed like the only thing I was able to decide on for months was what color to paint my toes. I think I'd only had one pedicure in my life before my husband died, but after he was gone, if I had a spare thirty minutes, you'd find me at the local nail salon contemplating the fifty bottles of OPI colors in front of me.
I think there are several good reasons for this: The first is that there is something comforting about sitting in a massage chair and getting your feet rubbed and buffed. The second is that you're sitting with someone who could care less about your personal life and you don't have to explain a damn thing to them as long as you tip well. And the third is...if you make a poor decision and your nails turn bright orange, you can come back tomorrow and get your decision reversed.
When I think about that time in my life, I'm pretty lucky that my nails did not just surrender and fall off.
And it wasn't like I didn't want to make decisions. I was in what I like to think of as my "manic confusion" phase. I could strip the wallpaper in my house, but I couldn't decide what color to paint it. I could decide to go back to work, but I couldn't decide what I wanted to be when I grew up. I missed having someone around to bounce all these big decisions off of and, truth be told, I missed having someone to argue with until I came to the right conclusion.
I spent the first couple of years constantly asking myself, "What would he do if he were here?" I constantly worried that if I did the wrong thing, he would be upset with me. How weird is that? I mean, even if it's true, hopefully I have at least another 50 years before I see him and surely he would have calmed down by then. But I couldn't help but wonder if he was a little irritated out there in the great beyond when I did something like...say...not bag the grass when I cut the lawn or let the organization in the garage go completely down the drain.
But when you get down to it, you can only do the best that you can do. Even though you don't want to be stuck in the position of Chief Decision Maker, there's really no way around it. And, frankly, no one judges you more harshly than your biggest critic...you. Your husband's not mad. He's up there laughing at you because now he gets to sleep in as much as he wants while you work your tail off down here. And I can guarantee you that no one else gives a damn if you bag up your lawn or not. Considering what you've been through, your neighbors are probably pleasantly surprised you're doing it at all.
In conclusion, I'll leave you with these parting words of wisdom that will sustain you for the rest of your widowed days: If this advice doesn't make you feel better...go get a pedicure. I'm telling you, it works wonders.
For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!
© Catherine Tidd 2010
I'm just envisioning what my husband would be doing if the situation were reversed.
For me, after the dust settled, it seemed like the only thing I was able to decide on for months was what color to paint my toes. I think I'd only had one pedicure in my life before my husband died, but after he was gone, if I had a spare thirty minutes, you'd find me at the local nail salon contemplating the fifty bottles of OPI colors in front of me.
I think there are several good reasons for this: The first is that there is something comforting about sitting in a massage chair and getting your feet rubbed and buffed. The second is that you're sitting with someone who could care less about your personal life and you don't have to explain a damn thing to them as long as you tip well. And the third is...if you make a poor decision and your nails turn bright orange, you can come back tomorrow and get your decision reversed.
When I think about that time in my life, I'm pretty lucky that my nails did not just surrender and fall off.
And it wasn't like I didn't want to make decisions. I was in what I like to think of as my "manic confusion" phase. I could strip the wallpaper in my house, but I couldn't decide what color to paint it. I could decide to go back to work, but I couldn't decide what I wanted to be when I grew up. I missed having someone around to bounce all these big decisions off of and, truth be told, I missed having someone to argue with until I came to the right conclusion.
I spent the first couple of years constantly asking myself, "What would he do if he were here?" I constantly worried that if I did the wrong thing, he would be upset with me. How weird is that? I mean, even if it's true, hopefully I have at least another 50 years before I see him and surely he would have calmed down by then. But I couldn't help but wonder if he was a little irritated out there in the great beyond when I did something like...say...not bag the grass when I cut the lawn or let the organization in the garage go completely down the drain.
But when you get down to it, you can only do the best that you can do. Even though you don't want to be stuck in the position of Chief Decision Maker, there's really no way around it. And, frankly, no one judges you more harshly than your biggest critic...you. Your husband's not mad. He's up there laughing at you because now he gets to sleep in as much as he wants while you work your tail off down here. And I can guarantee you that no one else gives a damn if you bag up your lawn or not. Considering what you've been through, your neighbors are probably pleasantly surprised you're doing it at all.
In conclusion, I'll leave you with these parting words of wisdom that will sustain you for the rest of your widowed days: If this advice doesn't make you feel better...go get a pedicure. I'm telling you, it works wonders.
For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!
© Catherine Tidd 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
But I Don't WANNA!!!
It seems like daily, I am forced to think about issues that I don't want to deal with. I hate sounding like my 4 year old when she needs a nap, but when you're reading this, you may want to hear a little whiny voice in your head as the narrator. Just a suggestion.
Car issues. I cannot stand dealing with car issues. Starting from buying a car and dealing with the very annoying and sometimes sketchy car salesmen, right down to getting rid of the hunk of junk and everything in between. To be quite honest...I even hate it when I have to stop for gas.
I didn't sign up for this. Automobiles were my husband's job. He was the negotiator. He was the one who could do any kind of car maintenance, thereby saving us thousands of dollars a year. For crying out loud...he was the one who would take my car to get cleaned.
After 3 years of living in Widowdom, I have learned to assert myself a little better when it comes to these issues. I think I've almost developed a multiple personality when it comes to dealing with the automotive industry. I sound very knowledgeable even though the only thing I really know how to operate on a car is the radio. I no longer go into the typical woman cry when I know that I'm getting taken for a ride by some mechanic but can't do a damn thing about it. I've even, at the age of 34, gotten to the point where I don't call my dad to come with me every time I need to get my oil changed. And that has me a little proud of myself.
Because every time I tackle something new, even though it annoys me and makes me miss my husband even more, there's a sense of empowerment that comes with it. I'll get my car fixed and think, "Dangit! I can do this!"
It also helps a little that if I screw up, I don't have to tell anyone about it. Because no one else sees my checking account anymore but me and I no longer have someone here to say, "You paid how much for that?"
I'm not saying that's the best way to cope. I'm just trying to keep my glass half full.
For more blogs and articles from other widow writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!
© Catherine Tidd 2010
Car issues. I cannot stand dealing with car issues. Starting from buying a car and dealing with the very annoying and sometimes sketchy car salesmen, right down to getting rid of the hunk of junk and everything in between. To be quite honest...I even hate it when I have to stop for gas.
I didn't sign up for this. Automobiles were my husband's job. He was the negotiator. He was the one who could do any kind of car maintenance, thereby saving us thousands of dollars a year. For crying out loud...he was the one who would take my car to get cleaned.
After 3 years of living in Widowdom, I have learned to assert myself a little better when it comes to these issues. I think I've almost developed a multiple personality when it comes to dealing with the automotive industry. I sound very knowledgeable even though the only thing I really know how to operate on a car is the radio. I no longer go into the typical woman cry when I know that I'm getting taken for a ride by some mechanic but can't do a damn thing about it. I've even, at the age of 34, gotten to the point where I don't call my dad to come with me every time I need to get my oil changed. And that has me a little proud of myself.
Because every time I tackle something new, even though it annoys me and makes me miss my husband even more, there's a sense of empowerment that comes with it. I'll get my car fixed and think, "Dangit! I can do this!"
It also helps a little that if I screw up, I don't have to tell anyone about it. Because no one else sees my checking account anymore but me and I no longer have someone here to say, "You paid how much for that?"
I'm not saying that's the best way to cope. I'm just trying to keep my glass half full.
For more blogs and articles from other widow writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!
© Catherine Tidd 2010
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