about with anybody else, even though sex, companionship, love, lust—call them what you will—weren’t frivolous concerns. They were some of the foremost features of a happy life, or had been up to now, anyway. Sooner or later, allthese women were going to face a difficult series of choices. Do I get involved with someone else? Who should it be? How involved do I get? It was still largely hypothetical for most members of the group, and it was stressful to contemplate, but we had found a place to talk about it, a place with no judgments.
“We’re having so much fun,” Lesley said. “Who knew these poor, sad women could have such a ball?”
“I was so afraid,” said Tara, “that this wouldn’t be fun.”
We’d been there nearly four hours, and I still hadn’t asked my question. Dessert was on the table. It was now or never. Don’t blow it.
“Now that we’ve all met, what would you think if we did this once a month?” I asked. “We could do things together, fun things, things we’ve never tried before, and not feel pressure to be sad. There’s so much social pressure on widows that if they’re not acting sad enough, they aren’t proper widows.”
“
That
is so true,” Tara said.
“I would personally like to fail Widow 101,” said Dawn.
“
Widow
is such a terrible word,” Lesley said, to vigorous agreement all around.
“We should come up with another word,” said Marcia.
“Let’s eliminate it altogether,” said Dawn, releasing her feelings with escalating brio. “And everything that goes with it. All the old ways of thinking about
what
you should be and
how
you should feel, and if you feel a certain way you should feel guilty, and if you
don’t
feel a certain way you should feel guilty. It’s crazy, the whole widow thing.”
“To me, it means old,” said Lesley.
“And sad,” said Denise.
“And black and dark,” Lesley went on.
“That you should die along with him,” said Dawn, not one to hold back.
“I don’t want people to feel sorry for me,” Marcia said curtly.
“Exactly,” said Lesley.
I seized an opening. “It shouldn’t have these connotations,” I said. “I came to realize this after a while.
I
became a widow, and I am not
any
of those things. That’s how I came to embrace the word eventually. And that’s why I’d like us to try this for a year. I don’t want this to be a stodgy group following preconceived ideas. I want us to get out there, out of our comfort zones, because, let’s face it, we’re out there already.”
They waited a good long beat while they pondered the proposal. I studied their faces, considered the almost comical mismatches in their personalities, temperaments, and manners of living.
“I think,” said Lesley, relishing the suspense, “that this has the makings of a wild and raucous group.”
Ideas started flying like fireworks. Six of us meeting once a month—the permutations were endless. Someone suggested we pamper ourselves at a spa, not exactly an extreme adventure, I thought, but sure—why not enjoy ourselves? Someone else proposed dancing lessons. “We need to get our hips busy again,” Lesley said in her saucy way. We talked about volunteering or traveling, maybe to Peru, or Italy, or Southeast Asia. Tara, of all people, suggested we buy new lingerie together.
“I’ve been wearing what my daughters call … The Mummy, this spandex microfiber flesh-colored whatever,” she said. “I need help.”
“Does this mean you’re all in?” I asked.
Four voices answered in sequence, like the Four Musketeers: “I’m in.”
Tara, of course, with her flair for drama, couldn’t say it flat out.“You know what I decided, on my way here? If this is negative … if it’s not feeding me … if it’s not making me a better person … then I’m not interested. I’m bailing. I need to do everything that feels right … and good … for
me
, without apologies to anybody.”
Dawn tried to cut her short.
“We’re having so much fun,” Lesley said. “Who knew these poor, sad women could have such a ball?”
“I was so afraid,” said Tara, “that this wouldn’t be fun.”
We’d been there nearly four hours, and I still hadn’t asked my question. Dessert was on the table. It was now or never. Don’t blow it.
“Now that we’ve all met, what would you think if we did this once a month?” I asked. “We could do things together, fun things, things we’ve never tried before, and not feel pressure to be sad. There’s so much social pressure on widows that if they’re not acting sad enough, they aren’t proper widows.”
“
That
is so true,” Tara said.
“I would personally like to fail Widow 101,” said Dawn.
“
Widow
is such a terrible word,” Lesley said, to vigorous agreement all around.
“We should come up with another word,” said Marcia.
“Let’s eliminate it altogether,” said Dawn, releasing her feelings with escalating brio. “And everything that goes with it. All the old ways of thinking about
what
you should be and
how
you should feel, and if you feel a certain way you should feel guilty, and if you
don’t
feel a certain way you should feel guilty. It’s crazy, the whole widow thing.”
“To me, it means old,” said Lesley.
“And sad,” said Denise.
“And black and dark,” Lesley went on.
“That you should die along with him,” said Dawn, not one to hold back.
“I don’t want people to feel sorry for me,” Marcia said curtly.
“Exactly,” said Lesley.
I seized an opening. “It shouldn’t have these connotations,” I said. “I came to realize this after a while.
I
became a widow, and I am not
any
of those things. That’s how I came to embrace the word eventually. And that’s why I’d like us to try this for a year. I don’t want this to be a stodgy group following preconceived ideas. I want us to get out there, out of our comfort zones, because, let’s face it, we’re out there already.”
They waited a good long beat while they pondered the proposal. I studied their faces, considered the almost comical mismatches in their personalities, temperaments, and manners of living.
“I think,” said Lesley, relishing the suspense, “that this has the makings of a wild and raucous group.”
Ideas started flying like fireworks. Six of us meeting once a month—the permutations were endless. Someone suggested we pamper ourselves at a spa, not exactly an extreme adventure, I thought, but sure—why not enjoy ourselves? Someone else proposed dancing lessons. “We need to get our hips busy again,” Lesley said in her saucy way. We talked about volunteering or traveling, maybe to Peru, or Italy, or Southeast Asia. Tara, of all people, suggested we buy new lingerie together.
“I’ve been wearing what my daughters call … The Mummy, this spandex microfiber flesh-colored whatever,” she said. “I need help.”
“Does this mean you’re all in?” I asked.
Four voices answered in sequence, like the Four Musketeers: “I’m in.”
Tara, of course, with her flair for drama, couldn’t say it flat out.“You know what I decided, on my way here? If this is negative … if it’s not feeding me … if it’s not making me a better person … then I’m not interested. I’m bailing. I need to do everything that feels right … and good … for
me
, without apologies to anybody.”
Dawn tried to cut her short.
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