I've been on my own for almost a year. I'm not a fan. I miss every kind of intimacy. I've been told that I should stay single. It picks my ass so it's probably true. (pause to consider deleting that because I'm resisting the shit out of it. soldier on.)

It's coming up on a year since my husband died. A heart attack out of the clear blue sky on a random Tuesday. I've been reflecting on our marriage and am filled with gratitude or regret depending on the day and my blood sugar level.

I've been joking that God hates me, what with my husband dropping dead and other challenges that hit close to 10 on my personal richter scale.

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.

Saying "my first two husbands" in the same breath as contemplating a third makes me think of taking up smoking and wearing diamonds and furs. And that I should come with a warning label.

The price of joy is pain. Because everything comes to an end one way or another. So bring on the fucking pain.

I've been taking this fulfillment thing too far. Time for some pleasure.

I'm free. I have no husband, my girls are independent of my daily care, and work is a want instead of a need. There were times when I longed for this freedom. 

Seven months as a widow. The longest stretch that I've been single since I was 16 years old.

I’ve spent years in the waiting place. Waiting in a career that no longer inspires me, waiting in an unhealthy relationship, waiting until I have more money.