Confessions of a Mediocre Widow

by Catherine Tidd

  I had a new widow ask me once, “So…did you feel like a complete hooker after your husband died? I feel like I just want to have sex all the time! I don’t know what’s wrong with me!”

  After talking to both men and women who have lost their spouses, it seems like we all go through this stage at some point. Some act on it and some don’t, and either way you’re not wrong. The need for physical intimacy prompts widows who, before their husbands died, would have blushed and shifted uncomfortably in their seats when the subject of “friends with benefits” came up, now seriously looking at their contact lists and wondering if anyone in there might be up for a little action.

  It’s a dirty trick.

  When we’re the least capable of sustaining a healthy relationship because we’re reeling from the one we just lost, our bodies are crying out for the same level of intimacy (if not more) that we shared with our spouses. And what really stinks about that is: even if we are fortunate enough to find a good relationship when we’re looking for it, usually that level of affection and someone knowing exactly what “pushes your buttons” is something you have to build up to. It may not happen for years.

  Missing out on the intimacy of marriage is all part of losing the benefits of a lifelong partner. Of course it will be missed. Of course we want it back! I know I’ve had to bite my tongue several times listening to married friends who complain about having to “give it up” every Tuesday night on the dot and who are avoiding their husbands by rolling over and giving them “the back.”

  And all I want to say is, “Girlfriend, you don’t know what you have till it’s gone and you’re facing the possibility that you’ll never have it again. So roll back over and get ’er done.”

  So what do we do? Well, there’s a choice to be made. Either we decide that we’re just not ready and take up kickboxing, or we acknowledge that this is something we want, take the plunge, and find some sort of relationship.

  After the whole Chad fiasco of 2007, I started looking for love (or at the very least a little foot action under the table). All of my friends were married and knew of no single men. I had been a stay-at-home mom for years, so I didn’t have a ready opportunity to have an affair with the CEO of my company. (Hey, every woman should have a sugar daddy at some point in her life.) And my weekly outings usually only involved multiple trips to Walmart (limited sugar daddy opportunities) and visits to the nail salon where, unless I decided to make a huge lifestyle change, the chances of finding a relationship were pretty slim.

  I didn’t like the bar scene in the short time I was in it. I don’t know how I ever imagined that I would have any sort of meaningful connection with a stranger as we shouted over an ’80s cover band and sipped (or gulped) watered-down well drinks. But it didn’t take me long to figure out I wasn’t going to find Mr. Right that way. It got to the point where even if a guy did make eye contact with me, my mind immediately went on the defensive.

  “You think you can pick me up, just like that?” I would think, giving him the evil eye. “I’m not just some girl you can pick up in a bar!”

  So, one night I was at a dinner with my young widows’ group and talking to two friends, one of whom was recently married and one who had just gotten engaged.

  “How did you meet your spouses?” I asked, nonchalantly. (Actually, I was probably foaming at the mouth a little bit.)

  “Online dating!” they both exclaimed at the same time.

  Alrighty then.

  Online dating opened up a whole new world for me, and I have come to the conclusion that I have a different view of it than most women. A lot of my friends found it appalling the way men would pick up on them via email or proposition them in a chat room. They found most of the men beyond unattractive and the ones who did look cute looked too good and like they could possibly scam them out of their life insurance money.

  I, on the other hand, loved it. Not the picking-up part, but the looking at profiles part. It was like people-watching from the comfort of my own home, one of my favorite activities. I could put on my flannel pajamas, light a fire, and enjoy endless hours of entertainment while I looked at pictures of men with mullets who had user names like “Lookin4DDs.”

  All of my married friends started to enjoy their daily email updates on how my online dating experience was panning out. The guy with the user name “DUIOffender” who was out there looking for his soul mate. Or the one who forwarded his picture and, much to my dismay, had a rockin’ set of bangs to go with his tank top. The email I received with words that I didn’t understand, but I think the upshot was that he was offering to make me a princess in a country I’d never heard of. And then, my personal favorite, the one who was “climbing the corporate ladder” but couldn’t spell “am.”

  He spelled it “aim.” Three times. In one paragraph.

  Hope he’s in accounting.

  My friends made me promise that, on the off-chance I did find Mr. Right, I wouldn’t give up my subscription.

  Another bonus to online dating is that you can look at someone’s personal résumé before you even respond to them. This way, the guy already knew that I was widowed before he shot me that deep, meaningful email that just said, “Hola.” It really is such a time-saver. Think about it: wouldn’t it be great if you could walk into a bar and glance at someone’s “criteria” (which has been conveniently stamped to his forehead) and know immediately if you had a shot at making this work before you even said, “Nice tattoo?”

  For example, if his stamp said that he has “4+ kids” and is excited about having more, you would know right away to down that mojito and bolt.

  After a few weeks of enjoying “interesting” profiles and receiving emails that sounded like form letters asking if I was interested in a one-night stand, I began to wonder where all of the “normal” men were. How in the world did my friends find men they wanted to go bowling with…much less marry?

  I began to get discouraged and wonder if I should save myself the sixty dollars a month and just use it toward extra pedicure appointments (which, apparently, no one would notice because I would never find anyone to whom I felt close enough to show them my feet), when Kristi told me a tip she’d heard from a friend.

  “You need to change your profile,” she said. “If you sound too nice, you’ll get emails from all kinds of weirdos. My friend told me that you need to write your profile so that it will offend at least 85 percent of the people who read it. That way you’ll really get what you want.”

  It may sound crazy, but it worked. As I deleted my profile and began to work on the new one, I thought of all of the men’s profiles I had read. They weren’t shy about saying what they wanted. They didn’t beat around the bush. The women, doing anything and everything they could to hook a new fish, would write, “I love walking in the rain in a white T-shirt and rubbing my man’s feet.” They would have three paragraphs detailing how they could be any man’s dream woman.

  The men, of course, were more direct (as men have a tendency to be). In one paragraph they would say how they liked skiing, biking, drinking microbrews, and watching Duck Dynasty. Anyone who didn’t like that stuff need not apply.

  So, I began to write like a man, detailing what I wanted and what I didn’t. I was straightforward and didn’t hold anything back. And this is what I came up with:

  So, this is what most people seem to be doing…a list of things that you are completely honest about when looking for your next friend or significant other. To quote Joe Public out there…if you fall into any of these categories, we probably won't get along: if you have ever spelled fashion "fation" or if you spell "am" with an "i" in the middle; if you are constantly going to compare my cooking to your mother's; if sleeveless, big-hair rock T-shirts are a staple in your wardrobe; if in our first conversation on the phone you ask me about my cup size (I like to have fun as much as any other girl, but come on!); if your previous wedding had a NASCAR th
eme (I can tell you that story later); if when you go to a party with people you don't know you stand in a corner and look miserable; if your idea of romance includes a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20; if you can't handle life's little curve balls with a little grace and laughter.

  Now, if any of the following DO apply to you, we will probably hit it off: if when you put in your profile you are comfortable going to a dive bar or going to the theater you actually meant it; if I ask you if my ass looks fat in these pants, you don't even blink before you say "no"; if you understand that women just don't find bodily noises as funny as men do (this is just a fundamental difference, I can't explain it); if you enjoy people-watching (and can tell the difference between fake and real); if you can balance watching WWF Smackdown with a little HGTV; if you are looking for an independent woman who likes to have fun, whether it's quietly sitting at home in front of a fire or going out to one of the millions of amazing places that Denver has to offer (and this may include someplace that has more than wings and nachos on the menu, but don't be scared).

  Think about it. What I wrote was entertaining, but I basically said, “If you’re going to take over the remote, make me eat bar food all of the time, never take me anyplace nice, or have the grammar skills of a goat, please don’t contact me.” Some “goats” will slip through the cracks and you might hear from someone who wants to make you one of his wives. It happens. But I definitely saw a decrease in the number of goats.

  And I started to see some possibilities.

  • • •

  To give the guys out there the benefit of the doubt, I’m not saying it’s always easy dating a widow. But our faults are not where you think they are. I think most men have a fear that they will be competing with a “ghost” for the rest of their lives, and I know very few women who put their new relationships through that. Well, any more than anyone else. The truth is, no matter how you became single—whether it’s through death, divorce, by choice, or by force—we all bring our life experiences with us and they have some influence in the next relationship.

  Hey. If you can talk about your ex-wife or girlfriend and the things you liked and didn’t, how is that any different from me talking about my late husband?

  Dating a widow with young children can be a hard adjustment, too. Because then your date has to deal with the fact that you don’t have “custody.” You are custody. Plans must be firmed up at least forty-eight hours in advance to ensure a babysitter. I once had a guy ask me constantly, “So, do you have your kids this weekend?” He could never really grasp the concept that I had my kids every weekend. I never got why this was so hard to understand.

  The good news about dating with children is that you can actually put a monetary value on a date. I could sit there and ask myself, “Is this guy worth ten an hour?” More often than not, the answer was no. And if you don’t have kids, I’ll offer up this helpful tip: if at any time during the date you start feeling sorry for his ex-wife, it’s best to just cut your losses and run.

  One of the things I disliked about the beginning stages of dating was how all of my memories and funny stories seemed to tie back to my husband in some way. It wasn’t intentional, but you spend thirteen years of your life in a devoted relationship, and that’s where your stories are. After a few dates when even I was sick of hearing “my husband and I,” I decided that I needed to make more of an effort to get out and live a little so that I would have something else to talk about.

  At the very least, I thought I should peruse a Sports Illustrated every once in a while so that I could beef up my conversation skills a bit.

  I spent some time emailing back and forth with a few guys, sometimes even getting as far as texting back and forth (which meant that I’d taken the risk of giving them a phone number), but very rarely did I actually make it to the date. I was fairly picky. Once, I was close to what I think would have been a disaster in the making when I had been emailing back and forth with a guy who seemed funny and nice and had a little potential. I made it as far as an actual phone call with him where he told me that he was pissed that he was out of sick days at work.

  Yeah. It was the end of January.

  Next.

  I had a pretty good experience overall. Sure there were guys that I would take a chance on and meet, only to figure out that we had no chemistry. But none of them lied. In fact, on one date, the very nice looking, professional guy I met immediately sat down and said, “I’ve got no game.”

  Well, not necessarily what I wanted to hear at the beginning of a date. But at least he was honest.

  For the most part, I kept my dating life on the down-low. I knew the friends who were entertained by my stories and the ones who were uncomfortable with the whole concept. I did the “responsible” thing and told at least one friend every time I was going to go out on a date with someone new so that if they didn’t get the “you’ll never believe my evening last night” email the next day, they would know to come sniffing around my house to make sure I was there.

  Knowing that my parents hated the idea of me dating almost as much as I did, I kept my reports to them to a minimum unless I thought I was getting close to introducing them to someone. In fact, I basically used the same rule with them that I did with my kids.

  Never introduce your kids or your family to a possible “significant other” until you’ve been dating for at least three months.

  Think about it: at three months, you have a better idea of where the relationship is going and if there is even a possibility it might last. You’re starting to come out of the “honeymoon” phase a little and figuring out that at Week One this guy was perfect and at Week Ten…not so much. At three months, you might have found one understanding friend who will go on a double-date “test drive” and tell you what they really think before you take the chance on confusing your family.

  As I weeded through emails, avoided texts, and occasionally met people I knew would not become the future Mr. Catherine Tidd, I started to lose confidence that I would find my love connection. Or even just my happy-hour connection. And just as I started to give up…

  …I met Billy.

  • • •

  After emailing back and forth with Billy a few times, I found it hard to believe that I might have found the one engineer in the world who had good grammar. Courteous, nice, with a good job, Billy seemed worth risking a lunch. And as I made my way through the door of the Mexican restaurant in downtown Denver one sunny spring Sunday, he greeted me with something I hear from people all the time.

  “Wow. You’re taller than I thought you’d be.”

  I’ll never forget that first date because, as I was driving downtown, the oil light came on in my little sports car. Now, Brad had always been overly diligent with our car maintenance and since he’d been gone, I’d become paranoid about car trouble. I know that a normal person would have thought, “Eh. I’ll get the oil checked next week.” I, on the other hand, started panicking and wondering if this guy would think I was completely psycho if I asked him to work on my car on the first date.

  The hostess led us to a booth that was against one of the exposed brick walls of the old building. We were pretty much the only people in the place since the restaurant did a hefty bar business and most of its usual customers were probably still sleeping off the night before. We sat there making small talk (me, wondering the entire time how I could bring up this whole oil light business), and even though I didn’t feel the need to grab his hand and elope to Vegas, I did think he might be worth a second date.

  Billy was sweet, smart, fun to be with, and five years younger than me (which actually made me feel less like a “cougar” and just really old). We lived on the complete opposite ends of town from each other, which made things inconvenient, but we both seemed determined to see where this would go.

  We would go out and meet his friends for trivia at a bar near his house. He would meet mine at parties and dinn
ers. And after a couple of months, I introduced Billy to my kids and, even though I could tell that this was uncharted territory for him, he seemed to enjoy hanging out with them.

  I realized fairly quickly that time was on my side. I know that all kids operate differently when it comes to their widowed parents dating, but mine never thought of my going out as shopping for a new “daddy” for them. And honestly…I didn’t either. I had complete confidence that I could raise these kids on my own and enough outside support that when a male influence was needed, plenty of guys would step up and help. I wasn’t dating because of my kids, because they had begged me for a new dad; I was almost dating in spite of them, trying to keep it as quiet as possible.

  Even though I’d heard that some of their friends had asked their mothers, “Will Haley, Michael, and Sarah get a new dad?” my kids never asked me that question, and to this day I don’t know why. All I know is that sometimes what I proudly labeled as resilience should probably have worried me because it may have been awfully close to denial. So, even though I would sometimes fear what was going on in their little heads, eventually I realized I needed to let it go a little bit. After all, I had them in counseling. I thought we spent a healthy amount of time talking at home about Brad and what had happened. If they weren’t worried about getting a new daddy or what that might mean, who was I to force that concern on them? I just had to learn to take each issue as it came.

  Being the social person that I’ve always been…Haley, Michael, and Sarah never really thought twice about new people coming in and out of the house. To them, Billy was just another face in the crowd or another adult they waved to as they walked out the door to play with their friends. He would bring his dog over, and the kids were much more interested in it than him.

  We would grill, play Frisbee in the yard, and take the kids to the water park. In fact, they probably really enjoyed that time in their lives because Billy was so concerned with impressing them and winning them over and I was so concerned with how they were doing. When we were around the kids together, our attention was focused entirely on them and their needs. What more could three kids want?