Oops! I did it again. Sorry to steal your line, Britney, but it keeps applying my life. What have I done this time, you ask? I’ll give you 3 guesses and the first 2 don’t count.

When last we spoke, I had gone to an officially official job interview. You’ll maybe recall that I was completely ridiculous and absolutely inappropriate to the point where perhaps I was self sabotaging a bit (as we know my history with getting a job over the last few years since my husband made his journey to the other side thereby leaving me to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to be doing all by myself, which is not really the easiest task I’ve been, well, tasked with given my proclivity to indecision, social anxiety and all around not wanting to work for someone that I can’t just flash my boobs to fix any problems I may have caused – I’m not a prostitute (or former prostitute) in case you were concerned, my last boss was my husband and that’s how I solved any mistakes he claims I may have made – a little sexual distraction went a long way with him – just kidding – sort of. Also, he wasn’t really my boss – we were co-bosses but that didn’t stop him from thinking he could boss me around. Insert eye roll here.)

Anywho, that was a really long tangent to bring you up to speed – I was offered the job. And guess what? I accepted the job. I had an appointment to meet with Human Resources to sign my life away to this new 40 hour per week, 12 month per year position that was certainly going to change my life for the better. I ordered new clothes since the last time I actually went to work, the uniform was jeans, a Turf’s Up OBX t-shirt and whatever pair of sneakers I chose for the day – one is not really picky about wardrobe when you’re slinging beers, inappropriate jokes and publicly picking on and equal parts hitting on your husband for a living. I broke the news to my kids, my family and my closest friends – most of which were mostly supportive, some of whom were a little questioning. It took a little convincing for the boys to get on board, after all, if I’m not around to be at their beck and call, how the hell could they go on living the life to which they’ve become accustom. But eventually, they decided they could continue living, they’d just use Mimi for said beckoning and said calling.

Then the nightmares started. Every night, every time I fell asleep, I dreamt that I was falling – off a bridge, over a cliff – and every night, right before I met my doom (or possibly my late husband), I would wake up in a panic. All day long, all I could think about was everything I was giving up to go back to work, the sacrifices that not only I would be making, but my children and my mother and everybody else in my life that would have to pitch in to help raise my children. And then the straw that broke the camel’s back – Colt got sick this weekend – started with a sore throat, morphed into a high fever, didn’t go away – he’s got strep throat. On the day that I’m supposed to meet with Human Resources, I can’t go because my son is sick, my mom is out of town with my dad, Ash’s mom is 80 with a heart condition that doesn’t need to be around sick children and I’ve got to call in sick. On day 1. And that felt like a whole new sign trumping the sign I thought I had received from God, Jesus, Ash, Bogey, Grandma or some totally random deady looking out for a gal.

Now, I know what you’re thinking (or maybe this is just what I’m thinking), what a little bitch baby – get your shit together and go to work like a normal fucking human being. But the thing is, I’m not a normal fucking human being. I don’t have to be a normal fucking human being. Ash and I didn’t get a lot right, but one thing we did do is plan for if the worst should happen in our lives (or pretty close to the worst). And damn if the (near) worst didn’t happen. He died. DEAD. AS. A. DOORNAIL. But he (we) had a plan. For whatever reason (probably God, Jesus, Grandma or some totally random deady looking out for a cute albeit feisty couple), we got life insurance very young, and when you are young and healthy, they like to give you the max policy for the minimum premium because they are banking on the fact that you will live past the 20 year term and they will not have to pay out the big bucks. Well, in your face Farm Bureau, we take your 20 years and we lower it to 10 and now you do have to pay out the big bucks. Ha! We showed you, didn’t we?! Also, for some reason, both Ash and I became a little real estate obsessed and decided to start investing the money we did have in couple of houses. And I still have those houses and they are rented year round and provide enough income for my boys and I to live on. That was another really long winded side note to say that financially, I do not have to have a regular job. And I think it’s high time I be ok with that.

I’ve told you all that to tell you this – there is no one on this planet that is judging myself more harshly than, well, me. I realize that this back and forth on the job thing is absolutely ridiculous. The thing is, there is no manual on how to kill it as a widow (other than the one that I am obviously writing, you are ALL so welcome, my fellow widows and widowers). There is only you – only you can walk in your shoes, only you know exactly how you feel at any given moment on any given day – and this is true for all humans, not just us confused as fuck widows/ers.

But here’s what I am telling myself to get over the harsh way I’ve been treating myself lately. Could I have handled this whole situation differently? Yes. As always, I want to try not to suck but guess what? Sometimes I suck and in this instance, I sucked. Deep down, I knew when I was asked if I wanted this job that I did not want this job. But I said yes anyway. Why? Because sometimes it’s hard to admit the truth to ourselves. And the truth is, I do feel like I should be doing more with my time. But on the flip side of that, working some job that’s taking me away from the things that are most important to me is not the answer. We have been through so much pain and hardship (as everyone has – we’re all different and we all handle the difficult and depressing shit differently – I can only tell you about mine and how I feel – not that anyone asked but I’m telling you anyway), we have put in so much work to heal our mangled hearts, those hearts that we are still attempting to heal every single day. I still have days where my only accomplishment is getting my kids to and from their activities. That is the cold hard truth. Should I still be having days like that? I don’t know. Again, I haven’t found the manual on how long we are supposed to feel sad when our spouse kicks the bucket, I only know how I’m literally feeling. I have days that I am so grateful for the life that we are living, so grateful that I don’t have to go to a job that I don’t love and do things that I don’t give a shit about. I have days where I hate myself and nearly everything around me and wish I didn’t have to keep going but obviously do because of all the love I have surrounding me. And, I think, all of that is ok. It’s ok that my job is my children and these goddamn dogs and making sure the house doesn’t fall down around us. It’s ok that our lives aren’t the norm because, well, our lives aren’t the norm. It’s ok that sometimes we’re tired and sad and lonely but all we want is to be left alone. And it’s ok that I don’t punch a time card every week. Instead, I punch these kids every week. Just kidding. I don’t punch anyone. Anymore. Sorry, Ash. Also, it was more of a slap, not a punch. Moving on…

To sum up, I got the job, I accepted the job, I quit the job before I even started the job. And while I shoulda, coulda, woulda handled it differently, I didn’t, and that’s ok, too. Sometimes (nearly every time), you gotta learn the hard way. Try not to suck but know that sometimes we all suck.