That Time of Year

So January 14 was the anniversary of R Man's death.  Several friends, including mrpeenee readers, sent charming, touching emails and some others posted about it on their sites, which I think is unbelievably sweet.  I, on the other hand, completely, totally forgot it, until I read the notes and posts.

I am not good about anniversaries, they seem to not have the significance for me they do other people.  I only remember my birthday, R Man's birthday and the date we met, and that's simply because it was the day before his birthday.  I know our wedding was sometime in the fall only because I remember at the party afterwards the datura on the patio was blooming.  I am one of the few people in America who can never recall the date of Christmas.  I know it's December 24 or 25, but despite a lifetime of being reminded and looking it up (as I did just now,)  I am still never sure which it is, and on some particularly bad years, a suspicion that it might just be December 26 sneaks in.

So the date I lost R Man (cheeky bastard, sneaking off like that.)?  Not a clue.  If I hadn't posted something about here with the specific date when it happened, I would be out of luck.

It's not to say I have "moved on."  I miss him every fucking day, achingly.  It's just, as I told Secret Agent Fred when we were trading widow stories, I don't need a peg (like an anniversary or a sad song) to hang my grief on.  It sits on my shoulder all the time and sometimes it calls my attention to itself and sometimes, mercifully, it doesn't.  The weeks leading up to his death were the worst time in my life, miserable and exhausting and heartbreaking, and I do not need a reminder of them because believe me, I am in no danger of forgetting.

So what was I doing on the anniversary?  I don't know, sleeping, watching porn or detective shows on TV, or obeying Saki's commands; the yoozh.  I have a gorgeous new pair of John Varvatos boots and I'm breaking them in by wearing them around the house and trying to dance in them without actually falling down.  I hope that's what I was doing.

A Good Cry. Putting the "Moron" in "Oxymoron"

I don't cry. I am not a crying person.   I say that not as some testimony to how tough or butch I am (there's an amusing idea,) it's just not how I react.  When R Man sickened and died, I made it through those very dark days without a tear, and not because I restrained myself;  I just don't cry.

Imagine my surprise tonight, then, as I watched the movie 50/50 and burst into huge weeping sobs. Wracking, wailing, misery pouring from several orifices.  I had to pause the movie.  I scared Saki.  I sort of scared myself, a rational part of me watching horrified demanding to know what the fuck was going on.  Could it be more than just reacting to cinematic mastery?  Mmmmmmmaybe.

When the movie first came out and got such good reviews, I considered going to watch it, even though a film about dealing with cancer sounded like trouble after the last couple of years.  Thank god I skipped it; I have a vivid mental image of myself huddled in tears in the men's room of the Lowe's metroplex.  Yuck.

Maybe it was just a perfect emotional storm.  I'm still sick; R Man's death is (obviously, understandably) a sensitive part of my life; and Joseph Gordon-Levitt is both cute and effective in the role.  Still, I just wasn't prepared for this.   I have so little experience with the phenomenon, I didn't even know crying makes your face hurt.  Does that seem fair?  First you feel bad and then you feel bad?

Crying.  What a stupid idea.