01/29/10
Yesterday I woke needing to feel pretty, so I drank coffee from a beautiful china cup but it got cold too soon and reminded me of how my grandfather poured his coffee into his saucer to cool it off so he could drink it fast.
I switched to a mug, utilitarian and not so bad looking but not the same as the feel of real china on my lips, especially if it has a platinum rim like mine. Pretty things make me feel pretty, so I dressed dressed pretty and painted my eyelashes with black mascara and dabbed blush on my cheeks. I have been farming my eyelashes with Latisse, and they are long and dark and sexy.
It didn’t work. I looked like a woman who needs to feel pretty and is trying to but is failing in a spectacular way. I took about 15 photos of myself trying to get a new facebook picture that didn’t look so dorky, but none of the photos was pretty. In fact, they all showed a sad woman with flat eyes, no soul in them.
I am especially missing My Dead Husband now. His birthday hangs hauntingly over my head. If he were alive, he would be 76 on Sunday. No wonder I look like a ghostly shadow of grief. Once again, I’m faced with one of the god awful “firsts” that happen in the year following the death of a loved one. He wasn't an average everyday loved one; he was my loved one and I his. He was the part of my heart that is still missing and I expect always will be. I don't want to cry today, but I've already begun. I hate this shit.
In The New Yorker that came yesterday, I read an article about grief. It was spot-on, to avail myself of today’s vernacular. The author took several thousand words to conclude that grief is work and that each of us has to do the work ourselves. I just summed it up in 14 words. I’m working here, I’m working.
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