The Senior Circuit is a series by MyRye.com contributor Robin Thrush Jovanovich. She is the president of the Harcourt Jovanovich Foundation and the former publisher of The Rye Record.
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Reader, I married him, and not just because he too loved Jane Austen novels. He was also willing to endure an endless stream of rom-coms, period dramas, nature programs, and award shows with equanimity for nearly half a century.
It’s been nearly two years since I lost my husband, a man of intellect, courage, culture, and no interest in golf. And no matter what well-meaning deacons, esteemed experts, or close friends who’ve lost their partners tell you, it doesn’t get better with time. You miss the marital bustle and the non-violent tussles, if not his need to floss in your presence.
Life is now an awkward embrace, despite the fact I read and weed with abandon, regularly exceed my walking goals, am moving up in Duolingo, and have sworn off following the Kardashians on Instagram.
I still miss buying him stacks of histories and biographies at Arcade Books; racing to Rye Beach Pharmacy to pick up yet another of his medications; searching for his glasses; telling him about my day; and escorting him, a natty dresser, to high-end men’s clothing shops — he would have been a regular at Baxter’s, the handsome new shop on Purchase Street. And I miss our endless discussions about the state of our nation, which he truly believed would remain “the last best hope”, no matter how hateful and hopeless its leaders.
Even though I struggle with faith, I firmly believe that my late partner is talking baseball with Willie Mays, movies with Gene Hackman, Diane Keaton, and Robert Duvall, and Shakespeare with Tom Stoppard. The things that brought him joy.
While I continue to fight my way through grief, I have started accepting invitations, especially to weddings, which has brought a whole new slate of challenges.
I didn’t know what a “plus-one” was until quite recently, and with two weeks to go before I travel to the U.K. to attend a fairy-tale wedding, I am unlikely to find one. Unless perhaps I hire someone, as Debra Messing did in “The Wedding Date.” (Is Dermot Mulroney likely to be available on short notice?) And even if I run into a smart-looking chap on the flight, who happens to be free that night and has packed a tux, can I count on him to know what to say and avoid saying at an upper-crust gathering?
Further, will he have two left feet? Dancing is a very important life skill, which affords you the opportunity to escape the person seated next to you at a reception with whom you have absolutely nothing in common.
It’s impossible to contemplate dancing or traveling with anyone but my husband; we never had an argument on a dance floor or on vacation in a foreign country.
But I went up to the attic today to bring down all the evening dresses and heels I haven’t worn since the late 90s or early aughts. Remarkably, most of them fit, even if they don’t fit the way they used to. Meanwhile, I need to figure out how to get rid of the overpowering odor of moth balls.
We travel on.
