I guess it is my wanting to control everything.
And not being able to control even myself is really annoying.
But it is just more unbelievable than anything.
How can I not even be able to control me.
What can I control?
I am working on self acceptance but hey, most women do not really do that until they are in their 30s anyway so I have two years.
Oh geez, I hope it does not take that long to accept grief as a permanent resident in my little head.
Please do not let it take that long.
Today I was getting some much needed exercise.
I was getting stressed out by some things and could not find much relieve.
So I thought maybe getting fresh air after a Florida afternoon storm was the perfect choice.
And it was for most of the walk.
I realized I was wearing the same pants as the week after the accident.
After the accident, I was wearing Roger's work out pants. All my cool clothes were stuck in the car since it was a crime scene.
Really because they were waiting to see if Roger died or not so it could be called a homicide.
Wow, homicide means murdered and that means my husband was murdered.
My husband did not just die, he was murdered. Fuck.
Sometimes it really takes months for things to sink in.
He had like five zillion pairs of workout gear.
I had just made him get rid of about ten pairs because they were too small or too short.
I still wear them now because boy workout pants have pockets.
Girl workout pants are supposed to be sexy or something silly so they do not have pockets.
But I need pockets for my keys and phone.
Because a little bit of paranoia tells me I may need keys for self defense and the phone to dial 911 for the boogeymen of the world.
I do not need to look sexy right now.
Some men might argue that I still look sexy wearing boys pants but...
In the ambulance to the hospital, they cut off all my clothes.
My favorite perfect fitting jeans, cut.
My brand new cute t-shirt, cut.
My $40 Victoria's Secret bra, cut.
All cut straight up the middle.
And I was worried about that.
I even slightly complained to the paramedic.
Because I truly could not comprehend the fact that my husband may be dying.
But I could comprehend losing a cute outfit.
My dear friend Scott went to my house and stole some of my clothes for me.
Stole because he said he felt like he was breaking into my house.
I did not have keys to the house on my keychain.
Why would I carry keys?
They took up extra space in my purse.
Roger had keys.
I did not need keys.
I gave Scott the garage code and directions on where to find my clothing.
I did forget to tell him to grab shoes.
In the midst of getting out of the car, I only put on one flip flop.
But Scott being super smart grabbed shoes for me.
He even grabbed a bra which I also forgot to tell him.
He also gave me options with different things to wear.
I was impressed. I still am.
Again, I have great guy friends.
The next days I wore only Roger's workout pants.
It was a way to be near him.
It was because I did not have to make a huge decision about what to wear.
It was because they were clean.
It was because they were not locked (locked, ha! The roof of our car was gone) in our car in some unknown location.
These particular pants have buttons all down the legs.
Roger would wear them and do this impressive "I can take my pants off in one big motion" thing.
The problem I had all that day was they kept coming undone.
And the buttons clinked all day while I was walking.
Clink clink clink.
Here I come.
Everyone had a sense of humor at that point still.
People would tease me about showing a little too much leg if the buttons came undone.
I would laugh.
I would re-button the pants.
Today as I heard the clink clink clink, I started to cry.
I was instantly back at Roger's bedside.
Listening to the ventilator.
Sitting in the hospital waiting room.
Being forced to eat something.
Really? Crying? Here?
Yep, thankfully the little crying spell was over before I ran into a non-speaking to me neighbor.
Maybe one day I'll accept grief for grief.