with Lynne and Leslie

If You Could Only See

by SweetMidlife

Happy New Year! Lynne here.

I woke up this January 1 a few hours before I actually got up, because NOT READY, but I scrolled Facebook and Twitter, and did this Bible study/devotional thing that I am a part of, and let our 2nd-grader into our room and we all snuggled for a bit, then he left, and then, ready to get up, I looked over at my sleeping husband and thought, “He’s really cute. I love him. I would love to take his picture and post it so that people would see what I see”. But I know that he would not be happy about that (even though some partners are, and if yours is, rock on). So I did not.

And that led me to thinking about social media and such, and my desire to share things with my peeps, be it my random thoughts, or something I saw on that platform that I thought was funny or could lift people up, and I thought about how cool it is that we have this way to reach people that we don’t see all of the time, or don’t really know, and how we get to share our humanity with them.

But then I thought about how sometimes my need to share turns into a need to be validated, almost as if that dinner or experience didn’t happen if no one else but me saw it and said it was good. And that then makes these things like a performance, instead of a chronicle. And then I started thinking of that Tonic song, “If You Could Only See”, where the singer says that they wished that other people could see how their girlfriend loves them, so that other people could understand why the singer feels how he does about her. Which is nice. BUT, and this is where I am landing…

…as much as we want to shout from the rooftops about the thing we are doing or the person we love, that love, or that experience, doesn’t become less real because other people aren’t witnesses to it. Or approve when they do see it.

This year, I want to spend more time experiencing the life I have, and sharing it if I want to, but not to the point that the experience becomes just having something TO share. I want to keep some stuff. So, no shame if you want to show everyone everything, and no shame if you don’t. I just want you to know that sometimes it’s okay if YOU are the only one who sees.

Holiday Traditions, However You Got Them

by SweetMidlife

Hi! It’s Lynne! Haven’t written in many a month. Good to see you. I am so excited that Leslie decided last month to resurrect this blog that we’ve been not updating. Here’s my contribution!

It’s the holiday season, so loop de loop! And dickory dock! And we always forget to hang up our Christmas stockings until the last minute around here, and when we do, we never really put anything in them, and when THAT happens, it’s because I think of something to put in my kid’s stocking at some point, or my mom comes into town and she does it. Well, this year, there are things in it that I know I didn’t put in it, so yay, husband, or whoever random person snuck in here and put things in our stockings. Which would be a whole other problem (but I know it was the husband).

Anyway, as people ask if I am ready for Christmas, or if we are still shopping, my answers are 1. No, 2. Yes, 3. I don’t even know what “ready for Christmas” means, really. Because we all have different traditions, and wants, and plans, and my thought of a complete Christmas looks like other people’s beginnings, because they do way more than me.

And that’s okay.

Because we spend so much time during the year comparing ourselves to other people and the way that they live, and we start wondering if maybe we should be doing all the stuff that they do, and then we get resentful of them when we CANNOT do the things that they do, when they do not live in our wallets or we in theirs. My parents used to always wait until Christmas Eve to get our trees, at first because they were busy, and secondly because they were cheaper that day. and after awhile, it became our tradition to do it that way. They did what worked for them. So all that to say…

…There are so many ways to feel inadequate. Let’s give ourselves a break this holiday season. Do what works best for you. Let other people do what’s best for them. That sounds simple. Yet it is not. Maybe the more we do it, the easier it will get. Happy Holidays, my friends.

Happy Thanksgiving from your neglectful bloggers!

by SweetMidlife

So…remember us?

Remember us? This is us?

It’s OK if you don’t. It’s been months – six of ’em – since either Lynne or Leslie, the twins who write this here blog, have been heard from here. It’s not that we haven’t been busy. Lynne has her own theater company from which she hopes to change the way kids see civility, one funny, meaningful line at a time. She’s also the worship leader at her church and has a son and husband to hang out with. Leslie wrote a book and has been hitting the road and even the airways getting the word out about grief, recovery and laughing. She also has a kid to keep alive.

But that doesn’t mean we haven’t been sucking here.

When we started this blog nearly a decade ago we were newlyweds in our late 30s who had something to say about how love isn’t about age, and that you don’t have to be young to be starting a new life. And in that decade, so much has changed – we changed the focus from weddings to midlife in general. And then life hit back and we had so many other priorities, including other writing, that we stopped writing here. We even planned to end it.

And then the bill came. As in, we got billed another year for the URL. And we thought “OK. Guess we have to blog again!” Working harder so you don’t waste money? That’s a really great adult lesson at midlife, yes? But it’s not just about the money. It’s that we have more to say. We are wiser – older, a little flabbier and with these interesting lines on our faces. We also have new hair colors. We have more to say. And we’re going to take the time to say it.

So we are back. I promise you’ll hear something from us weekly, even if it’s three words and a cat GIF. We are thankful, today, for our friends and family and anyone who ever took two seconds to care. We are thankful to God for auto payments because they got out lazy butts back to the computer.

And we’re thankful for whatever we’re gonna eat today. Because we like food. And you. Buckle in and bring snacks. It’s gonna be fun.

Allyship: A fable; Or “Helping while actually helping and not taking over every blessed thing”

by SweetMidlife

So I’ve had an interesting weekend, inadvertently having a discussion with actress/feminist activist/Twitterati champ Alyssa Milano about racism. Yeah, I was shocked as you are.

I’m not going to get into the whole discussion because it’s long and has both helpful and hurtful tangents and it’s a holiday weekend and I don’t have the time. But the gist is that Ms. Milano posted that the presence of KKK meetings in 2019 meant she didn’t recognize her country, and myself and others informed her that it’s exactly the country we’ve always known we lived in, even after the election of a biracial president that she said she’d hoped was a symbol that we were past racism (Fake “Arrested Development” narrator: We are not.)

Anyway, Milano has said that she wants to be an ally to POC, which is a noble thing, but so hard to do when you haven’t paid enough attention to the details of the actual struggle to know that it exists. This happens when we as supposed allies, whether straight allies in LGBTQ+ causes, or white allies in communities of color, or Christian allies in Muslim spaces, decide to center our feelings and tactics without asking what the communities we propose to help actually want. Emily Saliers of the Indigo Girls once told me that the best way to be an ally is to listen, and not assume you’re in charge.

For some people, who have traditionally believed that their needs were to be centered in everything – my generation watched a lifetime of specials and movies where a well-meaning white person was always the star of any story about indigenous people anywhere, and I think it’s hard to get over that. (As a black woman, mainstream culture made it clear that very few things were mostly about me.)

So think of allyship as a simple parable: Imagine there is a war, a fierce one, and a band of brave fighters are doing their thing on the ground, but know that it’s going to take help from people on the outside who have more in common with the people they’re fighting. At a crucial moment, someone from outside arrives and says “I’m here to help you!” “Thank God!” say the tired freedom fighters. “Let us tell you what….”

“No need!” say the helpers. “We already know what you should do. We’ve been in charge a lot and we mean really well, so surely we can take it from here. Also, here’s what you need to do. Here’s Bob. He’ll be your leader now.”

“Wait a minute!” say the freedom fighters. “There’s so much here on that ground that only we know, that we have experienced from being on the front lines, that we need to explain to you before you can help. And we appreciate you and Bob and everything, but we just need your help to spread the word to your compatriots because they won’t listen to people like us as well as they listen to you.”

“Well….” the new allies say, tapping their feet and getting just the slightest bit indignant, “you’re not being very sensitive to us, and we mean well, so telling us how to help you, when we’ve told you our plan, is rude. If you keep doing that we’re going to get offended and maybe not want to help you.”

These sentiments were heard by some of the other freedom fighters, who began yelling at their own compatriots. “You have to be nicer to the allies, or they’ll get sensitive and run away and not help us! You’re being mean.”

“But…” said the first group, “why are you more concerned about the feelings of people who center their own over what actually needs to be done? Why are you trying to protect THEM from us when all we’ve asked them to do is listen?”

Meanwhile it’s a big old mess, and everyone is yelling and mad, and meanwhile the enemy is laughing because nothing is getting done. And meanwhile the so-called allies are giving interviews about how they’ve been slighted, and how the freedom fighters are ungrateful, and why won’t they just shut up and let Bob lead a fight he actually doesn’t know enough about?

The moral of the story is this: If you propose to help a culture not your own, but center your own ego and needs over theirs, you are not an ally. You are just one more thing we have to fight.

The Slings and Boo-boos of Outrageous Fallings

by SweetMidlife

HI! It’s Lynne. We haven’t written on this blog since January. But this seemed like a good thing to break that streak.

Hello there sling my new friend
I’ve got to wear you once again…

Two weeks ago, I fell in the bathroom and hurt my arm. Did you know that bathroom floors are wet, especially when you’ve gotten out of the shower? I found that out when I took a shower first, didn’t have a towel to dry myself off, went in the hall to get a towel and went back into the bathroom and slipped. YAY! I originally was told it was a hairline fracture, but it turned out to be a bone bruise. I was put in an arm cast for 2 weeks, which I know is short compared to a really bad break. And it wasn’t fun, but it was passable, and when I had the cast removed on Wednesday, I was given a sling to wear as much as I can over the next two weeks, but not when I drive, which I haven’t done the past few weeks, or when I write, which means I need to put it back on and make this short.

So when the person from the orthopedic office put the sling on, I told her that I didn’t like slings, because they make my shoulder hurt, and it was awkward, and blergh. And she looked at me and said as nicely but truthfully as she could, “Well, it’s not supposed to be comfortable.”

That’s an entire sermon right there.

Healing isn’t always comfortable. The things that make us better aren’t always fun. I am not advocating things that might be harmful, like abusive situations. But saving money so you can get out of debt may not be as fun as making it rain in the candy aisle at Giant Food, which I have done and I can tell you, that’s fun. The candy. But getting out of these credit cards will be more fun.

And so will not having a hurting arm. So I am wrapping this up and putting the sling back on. And I will heal.

2018, as interpreted through my Spotify “Top Songs” playlist or “Barry Manilow ain’t never lied to you”

by SweetMidlife

There’s a lot to be said about the year 2018, other than “over.” Some would call it a 365-day-long dumpster fire. The more optimistic among us might say it’s the necessary sink to the bottom to inspire a conscientious climb back to a better world.

As a lifelong journalist who believes that looking at hard cold data – also known as the receipts – is an important gauge of where we were at particular moments in time, because memory is spotty and also we lie to ourselves sometimes to obscure our dumbassness. When Spotify, the popular music streaming platform, compiled a playlist of the songs I listened to the most in 2018, it seemed an intriguing way to chart where I was emotionally during the year. Music, after all, is more than just a collection of notes we like bopping to, although it certainly can be that. The songs I had on repeat, I figured, meant something to me, soothed or riled or tickled something in my chest. And Spotify doesn’t lie – I can try to be cool and current with the Top Hits of NewNextNow or whatever it is, but I’d imagine the average release date of my playlists songs is 1987. Whatever. I ain’t ashamed. Bring on the Anne Murray weepers and get it over with.

“Oh No,” The Commodores: I had this, my favorite melodramatic Lionel Richie-esque weeping-into-power ballad, on a playlist I’d made during a brief dumb dating situation the previous year because it was fun to listen to while I was happy. Once the dumbness abated and I was no longer happy with that person but working towards being happy not being with them, it was fun to belt out in the Palm Beach Post parking lot while procrastinating getting out of the car and going to work already. Sometimes wallowing is healing.

Uptown Girl,” Billy Joel: I am not the biggest Amy Schumer fan. Not by a lot. But her rom-com “Trainwreck” has earned its sweet, cynical way onto my go-to list of movies I put on while writing, because it’s well-written, funny, and features the instant classic comic pairing of Bill Hader and Lebron James. And any film that (SPOILER ALERT!) finds its final romantic reconciliation in a cheerleading routine set to “Uptown Girl” earns my love, because Schumer’s character has previously expressed scorn for both cheerleading AND “Uptown Girl.” But she participates in said routine, set to said song, because the love of her life loves those things and she knows love means sacrifice. I love that song, and I love being reminded of the hope that someone could love me, maybe, that much again.

“Here Comes Your Man,” The Pixies: Part of good parenting is making sure that your kid is exposed to good music, so if one day his taste sucks you can at least be sure it’s not for lack of trying. This here song was on a bank commercial, and my son was attempting to recreate it from his booster seat perch in back of my Prius. So I cued up the song and watched his little eyes light up. “MOMMY!” he squealed. “THAT’S OUR SONG!” Yes, my darling, it is. I win…something.

“Freedom Hymn,” Austin French: I share a Spotify account with the aforementioned kid, who likes to fall asleep to a playlist that is almost entirely composed of Contemporary Christian tunes and Andy Grammar. He’s a spiritual, mellow 5-year-old, I guess. I admit that I don’t listen to this stuff a lot if he’s not in the room, because some of it seems monotonous, but this is one of Brooks’ favorites. I don’t know what he likes about it, but I love the concept of it, that we fight against the wisdom that we know makes us free, if we just surrender to it. Me and God have had an interesting run through this morass of loss I’ve fought through, so remembering that He’s there is a big deal for me. Thanks for the song suggestion, Kid.

“No More Lonely Nights,” Paul McCartney: When Linda McCartney died, I heard a DJ explain that this song was written by Paul about the one night they ever spent apart from the night they got together until the day she died (I think he’d been detained for trying to take hashish through an airport.) I stumbled on this, a favorite of mine since 1984, and I remembered that story and started to cry, because it reminded me of every night I spent apart from my husband in the 5 1/2 years we were married, and the nights forever I’ll have to spend without him. And…it didn’t break me. The more I listened to that song this year, the more I could relish those amazing moments we shared and wish we had more without wanting to curl into a fetal ball and roll into a corner. I just let it be. And yes I’m very clever.

“Stomp!” The Brothers Johnson: It’s my go-to running song, inspired by its place on a playlist from my favorite step class in 1995 at York, Pa.’s Unique Physique. The teacher timed the “Everybody take it to the top” part for moments when we were up on the bench grooving. And it was glorious. And that bass line is some funky business.

“Brokenhearted Me,” Anne Murray: For some reason, the more I listen to this anthem of well-considered wallowing, the more it sounds like a John Legend song to me. Can’t you hear him hovering over the sad piano, leaning into the lyrics of self-acknowledged inability to move on? Can’t you just imagine him tackling the wide-eyed misery of lines like “A million miracles won’t ever stop the pain?” I can! And I like sitting in my car and imagining John and Anne just wailing and making a cross-generational selection of fans weep? Me too!

“Taking Chances,” Celine Dion and “Ready To Take A Chance Again,” Barry Manilow: You know those BuzzFeed quizzes that ask you what your mantra or theme song is? These two are my mantras for 2018 and 2019 and maybe forever, because they’re what I need to embrace about my life and my career. I used to think of them both romantically, but – and bare with me, because this is a whole mood – I am now at a point in journalism where the industry I still love is imploding even as we try to beat back the shards with new tactics but solid intention. Since July 1993, I have never paid my bills as anything but a newspaper journalist, and never imagined I would, honestly. But the reality is that this may not be available for me forever, and as I begin my journey as an author, while still kicking butt for my paper, I have to be brave enough to imagine what happens one day if things change. Also, I have always worked for someone else. Three of my dearest loves are ladies who run their own businesses, who took a chance, who, as Celine sings, jumped off the edge, never knowing if there’s solid ground below, or a hand to hold, or hell to pay. I’m not there yet. But I’m working on it. What do you say?

Peace on Earth, Goodwill on Twitter. Really.

by SweetMidlife

I’m sitting up in bed, two days before Christmas, with a lot to do and little desire, at present, to get from under this dreamy purple blanket and do anything about it. Since my laptop’s right here and writing is actual work I can accomplish without moving very much, I wanted to acknowledge something wonderful that’s happened to me in the last week that’s reaffirmed my belief in the kindness of humanity, even in this weirdly bleak dumpster fire of a national mood.

And it’s Taylor Swift fans on Twitter.

Yes, Twitter, that mythical online realm where civility and grammar go to die and be reanimated as the Wight Walkers from “Game of Thrones” – dead-eyed, focused and now armed with a zombie dragon.

About a year ago, I wrote a post on this very blog in defense of Taylor Swift, a very famous and accomplished person whose music is not my favorite, but whose hustle I admire. She’d Tweeted that 2017 had been a great year, and a writer for a national publication tore her a new one for not “reading the room” that the year had been horrific so many others. As a survivor of some heinous loss who’s had a fruitful ongoing recovery and some real triumphs, I wrote that people needed to let Taylor live, and that it was possible to acknowledge the greater state of suckiness in the world without trashing someone for expressing some damn happiness.

I’d almost forgotten about that post – 2018 has been very busy for me: I shopped and then sold “Black Widow,” a memoir about the first year of my widowhood, continued as a columnist for the Palm Beach Post as daily print journalism takes a licking and keeps on ticking, and continued being a single mom raising a great, energetic little boy. But when someone reTweeted the link to the story, a strange thing happened – well, maybe not strange when you consider the power of a fandom as strong as Taylor Swift’s – it caught on. And suddenly I had all these Swifties in my timeline, thanking me for my kindness. It knocked me over, y’all. I wasn’t a fellow stan, or someone they knew – just someone who acknowledged the right of their fave to have some happiness.

We are in weird days – the government is shut down, the economy may be wobbling and there are sad, depressed lonely people all over this country and this world. Happiness is fleeting in some parts, so when you find it, when something sweet and wonderful happens to you, we need to hold onto it and tell everybody. Twitter has no problems with people “cancelling” other people, calling them out and telling them about themselves. Happiness shouldn’t threaten you. It should be celebrated.

Thank you guys for your kindness. You made a tired journalist mom smile. Now…somebody needs to make me get out of this bed and finish my laundry.

While You See a Chance, Rest

by SweetMidlife

Hi! It’s Lynne.

An old picture of me watching tv in bed because I was too tired to take one when I wrote this post.

So I think God speaks to all of us in different ways. Some hear audible voices, and some hear a warning or encouragement from a friend about something that we never told them but has been on our hearts. I believe God talks to me through pop music. Yes, I’ve heard Him in other ways over the years, but often I am going through things in my head and a song will come on the radio that speaks to me in a targeted way. And the song that has been my kiss from above, more than any other song, is “While You See a Chance” by Steve Winwood. Maybe it’s the organ he plays, or his amazing voice, but this song has always gotten to me. Then it really GOT me.

See, there have been times in my life where I was facing big decisions about moving forward into opportunities that could change things significantly for me, and out of the blue, this song came on. The first was 20 years ago, when I was offered the chance to be in a show at the Kennedy Center in DC. It was an amazing thing, but taking it meant I would have to leave the theater company I was on summer break from, and it meant joining the theater professional union. This opened me up to work at a new set of theaters and would include health care and open doors and the chance to tour in this same show the next year. But it also meant less certainty in between because some theaters don’t hire union actors, and it meant looking for other jobs between gigs. I was about to get on 395 South in DC, headed to my dinner theater show, batting all the possibilities around in my head, when that song came on. And it got to the chorus, the “While you see a chance, take it” part, and I swear I heard a “Lynne!!” in there somewhere, and it seemed like a push. And I was grateful, and took the job, and it changed the trajectory of my life. In wonderful ways.

And over the years, I have heard that song when I was wrestling with things, or about to venture into new territory: I heard it in a restaurant while very pregnant, heading to the last meeting for the teaching artist job I had, and pretty much one of the last professional things I was going to do before the baby came. It seemed like a nice segue into a the next season, and to rest in that.

So speaking of rest, this takes us to this past Thursday. That baby is now 6, and he has his own social schedule and things that he needs rides to, and my husband and I have church commitments, and I am teaching drama and directing a show and about to be in a show, and leading worship at church and there is also dinner to make and things to do and although I am trying to order things in an orderly fashion, it’s a lot.

So Thursday, it was a snowy and rainy day here, and my kid had school, and I was preparing for an after-school drama club that I am excited about. I was on the way to a meeting about an opportunity next year, and I was thinking ahead to drama club, and another lesson my son had that evening, and also a networking event I was supposed to go to while he was at his lesson, and I just felt tired. And right before I left, I got notice that the school system was cancelling after-school events because of the weather, and that was sad, but also took something off of my plate. And I thought to myself, “If weather is stinky enough for them to cancel things, maybe I should not go to the other things we had planned tonight.”

I got in the car, and Steve Winwood came on.

And relief and organ music came over me, and that was conviction. I rearranged my son’s lesson, and I sent regrets to the other event. And we came home after school. And I ate dinner in bed.

Sometimes taking chances means going towards something active and exciting. And this time it meant the chance to recover from excitement, and to embrace safety and rest.

Which actually is pretty exciting too.


Work it! Own it!: Having the guts to get paid what I’m worth

by SweetMidlife

I’m Leslie! I’m worth a lot! I am! I mean it! (Photo: Rissa Miller at Balance Photography)

Leslie here!

I have done a lot of things I’m proud of lately – finishing a half marathon, selling a book, continuing to keep my child alive. But my biggest recent personal accomplishment was telling a nice old lady that I couldn’t speak to her nice old lady organization because they couldn’t pay me enough. And I felt OK about it.

More than OK. I feel darn good about it.

I love speaking. Not just in general, as I am super verbose and don’t shut the hell up, but also in formal settings, where I say pithy, moving things about everything from widowhood to local places to eat to whatever the hell’s going on with newspapers these days (That’s a whole other thing.) I’ve been speaking everywhere imaginable, from schools to retirement communities to libraries, for years now, and the more I’ve spoken , my skill, as well as my stature in my community, have increased and improved.

And when that happens, the conventional wisdom is that you’re worth more. Which means that if you charge for your services, which I do, you should get paid more. That’s the way things work, and if you’re serious about being a business person and being paid for the professional thing that you’re good at, you have to do the jobs that correspond to your worth. This means beginning to turn down the ones that aren’t, because you have to look out for yourself. I’ve been having the same conversation about this with my sister and another friend for years now. It’s about how as growing business people, particularly as women that people like, those people sometimes expect you to cut them a break, to give them a discount. I mean, everyone likes a discount, and believe me I get plenty of them, and I’m grateful.

But the truth is that if everyone gets a discount, that discount is now your price. I’m not established enough or rich enough to be giving stuff away for free. I’ve been a reporter for 25 years, a regular speaker for about 15, and I’m about to be a published author. When the paper I work for used to have a speakers bureau, they provided reporters like myself to the community for free and paid us $40 for the time, which seemed like gravy – the job I loved provided me some extra cash and the people I spoke to were nice and sometimes even gave me a bagel.

But that was a long time ago, and I’m worth more, although even saying that sometimes sounds ungrateful due to the conditioning nice girls like me get to feel bad about asking for what we’re worth.¬†My price is now several times than what I used to get. I still want my bagel, tho.¬†Knowing that, of course, is easier than making that happen.

Which came to mind very recently while standing outside of a fancy cocktail bar on a recent girls trip confirming to that very nice older lady that I would not be able to speak to her group. I kind of already knew that- when she’d contacted me a week earlier, already apologetic that her group had a small budget, the number she’d come up with was very, very small. Being a nice grandmother type well practiced in the art of subtle guilt, she’d floated the idea that even though I’m important and busy, perhaps I had some special affinity for her group and would be willing to give them a discount. I do love her group, but again, if you keep giving everybody discounts, the discount is your price. So I saw her grandmother guilt and raised her one case of widowed single mother who needs the money. She appreciated that. But then she said something else.

“Well, obviously. But also you work really hard and you’re worth what you’re asking. We just really wanted you to come. I’ll check with the board and let you know.”

Well, wow. The lady who had asked for a discount was letting me off the hook because she wanted me to know that while she might not be able to afford me, I was worth what I was asking. SHE KNEW THAT. So I had to, too.

The call on my girls trip was to let me know that the board, although really into me coming to speak to them, was unable to come up with the money. I could have sworn that there was the slightest pause to allow me to say “That’s OK! I’ll do it anyway because it’s you!” But if there was, the moment passed, and I told her I was so sorry it didn’t work out but that I’d let her know when I was speaking in the area.

As I hung up and went back to my drink I felt both pleased with myself and pathetic that I thought I needed a cookie to stand up for myself, to ask permission to get paid. It’s stupid. I’m told all day long that I’m awesome. I might as well believe it. It’s not that I’ve never been kicked in the proverbial teeth – see the part about being a widowed single mother – but as things get better, healing continues and my book gets closer to release, I have to embrace not only my awesomeness but my worth. I’m hardworking. I’m good at what I do. And I’m worth it.

Hear that, Leslie? You’re worth it.

Three years a widow: I really am OK, you guys!

by SweetMidlife

Man, we were hot.

Well, look at that. It’s July 29th again! It’s the third anniversary of my husband Scott’s death! Well, isn’t that…a thing!

The only way that this date is not going to be significant and, again, a thing, is for me to be dead and not know that it’s happening, and since we aren’t planning on that happening anytime soon, I’m going to have to deal with the commemoration of this sucky, life-ruining thing every. Single. Year. The first time, I was resolved to be sad and tipsy and kinda backstroke luxuriously in my grief. Last year, I kind of cried and then said “Screw it, let’s do something fun.”

And today….I don’t want to cry. I still do that, sometimes, with no prompting or sad gauzey Lifetime movie montages necessary. I don’t need to manufacture occasions to miss Scott, because I always will. The loss of him will never be OK. It reminds a stupid glitch in reason and logic and God and I are gonna have a long talk about it when I finally do make it to wherever it is we go and meet God. (If it’s my idea of Heaven, it’s an endless “House Hunters” marathon next to All-You-Can-Eat Pad Thai Night.)

But at the three year mark, Leslie. Is. OK. Leslie can smile, and laugh, and not feel guilty about it. Leslie can think about giving Scott’s extraneous dress shirts and sports shorts that still take up too much space in a closet in a bedroom he never slept in, and not feel like she’s picking off pieces of her own skin. She can talk about the times he was a jerk, and not feel like she’s a bad priestess at the Altar of Husband. She can watch the video of his eulogy and not crumble. Her wedding photos don’t seem like the foundation of an elaborate cosmic joke – on her. She can consider doing things he wanted to do but never got to and feel him laughing with her, and not imagining that she’s doing something wrong by still being alive without him.

And that part’s huge. Leslie’s OK. I’m OK.

So today, when you come onto my Facebook page and you tell me stories about Scott, make them happy ones. Make them funny ones, ones about his Ravens obsession and his bad driving and his sloppiness. Make them about his kindness and larger-than-lifeness. I am not the only person who lost him – as his cousin Kenny says in that crazy eulogy, the dude drew a crowd. He was a man that people showed up for, even if he didn’t always believe it.

I am showing up for Scott Zervitz by being what he would want me to be: OK. Better than OK. I’m good. His son is good. We’re good.

And this time next year, I intend on being able to say the same.

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