Oh crap, widowhood is going to be fattening! I went to the grocery store today for the first time since the funeral. At the checkout stand, as I was trying to chock back tears while answering the clerk’s question about where my husband was, I discovered that I had loaded up my cart with all my comfort foods---Graceter’s chocolate ice cream with chocolate chips, Kraft macaroni and cheese, Chocolove bars of dark chocolate with orange peel, frozen deluxe pizza, and a bag of Brach’s orange slice jelly candy. Why can’t comfort foods be something that grows in God’s great earth and is picked by migrant workers? Why can’t we put on our fuzzy, old bathrobes and curl up with a bowl of broccoli and feel the same warm, metaphorical hugs we get from eating chocolate bars in bed?
This afternoon I sat in the kitchen, eating the gourmet ice cream right out of the carton while making calls to cancel all of Don’s upcoming appointments and to get information on removing his name from various documents, etc., etc. etc. So much paper work comes with dying! A half a pint eaten, half the calls on my list completed. Do the math and you’ll know exactly what I’ll be doing tomorrow. ©
