Finding The Merry Widow Inside Me · Kathy L Murphy's Big Book Love

Finding The Merry Widow Inside Me

Let me tell you something about turning seventy. Nobody throws you a parade. There's no certificate that arrives in the mail congratulating you on making it this far. What you do get is a whole lot of people treating you like you're already halfway to the grave, speaking a little louder when they talk to you, asking if you need help with things, you've been doing perfectly well since you were six years old in 1955.

Well, I've got news for everyone: I'm seventy years old, and I'm not dead yet. Not even close. My husband? Yes, he's dead. It's been five years now. And for a long time, too long, if I'm being honest, I acted as if I'd died right along with him. Wore my widow's weeds like they were sewn onto my skin. Became a professional mourner. An expert at being the sad woman at the end of the pew, the one people whispered about at church socials. "Poor thing," they'd say. "She's taking it so hard."

And I was. God knows I was. Forty-eight years of marriage doesn't just evaporate because someone's heart stops beating. You don't just shake it off like water after a swim. But here's what I've figured out, sitting in this house that's too quiet, eating dinner at a table set for one, watching television shows he would have hated: I earned the right to have the life I want now.

Not the life everyone thinks I should have. Not the life that looks appropriate for a woman my age. The life I want.

George Burns, now there was a man who understood something about aging, once said, "You can't help getting older, but you don't have to get old." I've got that quote taped to my bathroom mirror, right next to the magnifying mirror I use to pluck the chin hairs that have decided to throw a party on my face without my permission. Every morning, I look at those words, and I think: He's right. Getting older is mandatory. Getting old? That's a choice. And I'm choosing not to.

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