Supermarket shopping: the sixth stage of grief

In the 21 months I have been without Bronnie, I may or may not have suffered the ‘stages of grief’. Certainly, not as usually prescribed if I have, indeed, gone through:

Denial
Anger
Bargaining
Depression
Acceptance

Although I do recognise the Anger stage. This happened at a family function where I wanted to stab a man for having the audacity to ask me to dance at a dinner dance. Dinner was fine, I could do the dinner bit, but the dancing part felt odd without Bronnie mashing my feet into the ground every third rotation. Bronnie was the sort of dancer who listened intently for the beat and then did everything in his power to go the other way and avoid it. He and rhythm were not kissing cousins; indeed Most of the time they weren’t even on speaking terms. I miss that.

So, a tick for Anger, then.

Denial?  Maybe that was when I refused to accept there may be a rat living in my compost bin. While the Pest Control Officer insisted on naming the problem, I insisted we were still only dealing in circumstantial evidence. Yes, there were massive bites in the wooden fence leading to the compost bin. Yes, there were massive bites in the fallen apples which had been placed in the compost bin. However, had we actually seen a rat in the compost bin? I insisted on remaining unconvinced until I had hard evidence. Re-entering the house, after being told to go inside so he could get on with the job he had been doing for over 20 years, I did so muttering all the while “Bronnie, I KNOW you didn’t leave me here alone dealing with this prat. [sic]

Let’s okay a yay for Denial.

Come to think of it, the rat problem (perceived rat problem) could pretty much take care of Bargaining and Depression as well, since I offered to pay Chief Ratty Officer a million pounds if he could turn back the clock and make the problem not exist, and was fairly depressed when he said no.

DenialBargainingDepression. Tick…Tick…and Tick.

And a long way round to the title of this post.

I went supermarket shopping today and, for the first time in a very very long time, only needed to shop for me, myself and…I. This has not been the case since I was a single and carefree hot mama, as opposed to a hot mama in the mode of hot flushes and night sweats. No husband to cook for, no children to cook for, just me to cook for. And since I had to concede no one woman needs a family pack of 250 fish fingers for dinner, I wondered if that was Acceptance pretty much polished off as well?

You heard it here first, people, ‘Supermarket Shopping: The Sixth Stage Of Grief’.

The Black Widow

 

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