Warning: Foul Language

I have a tendency to put lipstick on pigs. The new lingo is "toxic positivity". In general, positivity is positive. But occasionally, I need some good old-fashioned negativity. Some righteous indignation. Some anger.

My anger is easy to access when you fuck with my people, but tougher to access when you fuck with me. When you fuck with me, I crack out the lipstick. I explain the offence away, think of the ways I deserve it, push down the anger and hurt. So this is a message to myself:

Hey Boo, you are one of my people. I will protect you. I'm mad when people fuck with you.

Good talk.

Here's a taste of my righteous indignation. 

My husband died. For some, that has become the defining element of my identity. In their view, I have become my late husband's walking, talking memorial and, depending on my behaviour, I am either upholding or tarnishing his memory.  A few of these judgers let me know, in no uncertain terms, how disappointing I am as a memorial. That a good memorial wouldn't make dead-person jokes, or think about sex, or even consider getting remarried. Their hateful fervour helped me examine my behaviour and beliefs. So this is a message to myself - and to other widows who might need to hear it:

You aren't a walking, talking memorial. You're a living, breathing woman. You honour your husband by loving and remembering him, not by suspending your own life.

I am profoundly grateful for my daughters and all those in my inner circle who are first in line to protect me when you fuck with me. And that ain't lipstick. That's extra-crispy bacon.