Widow's Desire

It doesn't take much to be happy even though you are a confirmed widow. I should explain the "confirmed" word. When you are of-an-age, you aren't going to find a knight in shining armor or a Tarzan swinging down from the trees. In fact, you are more than likely not to find a man at all. They like the "younger stuff" not that it works out after the bloom period.  And while old men are beautiful in their attentiveness and constantly repeated memories, widows usually prefer, shall we say, "dating" rather than trips down any aisle. Sock washing days are over.  But there are compensations that allay the meanness of loneliness, and I don't mean quilting. I happen to enjoy mixed company simply for variety in conversation. I had a great marriage for decades and a lovely boyfriend after that, too, ended in death, but now that both men are gone, I find there are other joys to keep me going. Today was one of those delights. The sun shone and it was warm enough to lower the convertible top and hear the song of the lark on my way to grocery shopping.  Lark song to me, is the world's most perfect music. Grocery shopping can be an adventure if you let it. I am a list-maker and when I reach my favorite store, I do a great deal of pondering over each vegetable to find the perfect one. I study the toilet paper section to find the best buy. Today another woman and I did a long assessment on that matter. She finally came up with the lowest price for highest quality, and I think we saved at least a whole dime between us. The vegetable department is very fine research lab, too. The bananas are simple. Get the green ones. Pineapples and kiwi fruit are more serious. They have to smell ripe and be softish and you would be surprised how many people enter the arena of this sport and do a lot of sniffing and poking. Today they were too hard and thus, stayed in the bin. The fruit ,not the people. The raspberries were fine though. The holy meat department required much pondering. Barbecue time has arrived and professional-style grilling is begun. While kebabs are fun, serious people in the matter of the tenderloin  require expertise. The butcher was called in. At over twenty-dollars a whack, you don't want to play a guessing game with your steak. We went on for some time before I ended up with a thick tenderloin to be cut into wee ,but perfect, specimens of the ideal steak. Salt and pepper only, please. No need to soak the thing for hours in muck to tenderize it. Finally, I ended up at the flower department. What is a happy day without flowers for the house? Then the wine store beckons and lo, the usual reliable choice wins out yet again. Then it's off home and the unpacking routines with an ending of a bit of the wine and a chunk of savory cheese with feet up. Ah, life is not all that bad - even for an old widow!