And Life Comes Back: A Wife's Story of Love, Loss, and Hope Reclaimed by Tricia Lott Williford Page A
Authors: Tricia Lott Williford
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be). What we once intended to be the potted product of right and wrong has now become a variegated reminder of a silly argument.
But to me, it’s become a metaphor of so much more: my heart’s very own season of pruning. Clipped short, unsightly, looking barely alive.
I miss looking pretty.
Please don’t misread that. It’s not a dramatic expression of self-deprecation, a begging plea for affirmation. It’s not. I just miss having someone to dress up for. A reason to get dolled up.
Even after we were married, Robb and I never stopped going on dates. I loved dating him; we had some really fun times together. And I really liked prettying myself, giving him my presented self, doing all my best tricks to bring his admiration from across the table. Because you can never be married too long to long for a longing look.
I recently watched an episode of
Parenthood,
the series that I believe to be excellent TV drama. Julia and Joel were planning a date for their anniversary; with her hair up, she wore a stunning red dress. There in my living room, alone with the TV, I began to cry. I realized I don’t have a reason to wear a red dress.
A night out with the girls can go a long way to lift my spirits, and there’s nothing like an evening adventure with a group of sisters who really want to make me laugh, lift me up, remind me that there is life, within me and around me. And such a night calls for its own wardrobe selection: sassy, confident, ready to embrace a good time. But it doesn’t call for a sexy red dress.
Sometimes, just sometimes, I want to wear the sexy red dress.
Gentlemen, let me show you how it’s done.
—Robb Williford
July 2010
We were on our second honeymoon, a revisit to Cancun, Mexico, ten years after our first visit as newlyweds. When we arrived and checked into our room, we agreed on a couple of ground rules for the trip: (a) we would take off our watches, turn off our cell phones, and have no agenda except what we wanted, when we wanted, preferably a couple of hours later than anything we might have done at home; (b) we would keep the TV turned off. We broke the second rule, but only in mutual agreement to watch season five of
Friends,
albeit in Spanish with subtitles.
Our day hinged on meals. We ate breakfast at who-knew-what time, as long as breakfast was being served. We enjoyed a morning snack on the beach: chips with salsa,
queso,
and guacamole, alongside two margaritas with extra salt. We ate lunch in the late afternoon, and then we took a nap on the beach, by the pool, or in our hotel room, only to wake up whenever we chose. After a day in the sun and the sand, we dressed up for dinner on the island. I wore a new sundress every night of the trip, and we ate a late dinner so we could enjoy the evening atmosphere with the serenade of mariachi bands.
In our succession of meals and Spanish subtitles, we found each other again on that second honeymoon. The third night of our vacation, we chose to finish the night at the hotel bar, just the two of us. Well, the two of us along with most of the other guests at the resort. We hadn’t known about this late-night life, so I came woefully under-dressed in my jammies. Still, we weren’t interested in the crowdedscene, in the karaoke happening on the dance floor; we simply chose a couch in a quiet corner and played cards on the coffee table. I am a lightweight with alcohol, enjoying the flavor far more than the effect, so after one Kahlúa and crème, we drank Diet Cokes with limes.
With grand announcements and obnoxious invitations, the off-key karaoke transitioned into a newlywed game. “Come one, come all! We need four couples on the dance floor!” We exchanged glances, a silent
Should we? Do you want to?
We each shook a nonchalant no. We didn’t need to prove ourselves to each other or anyone else—even if we could totally kick this thing and wipe out the competitors. We went back to our card game. He played, I played, and then he tossed
But to me, it’s become a metaphor of so much more: my heart’s very own season of pruning. Clipped short, unsightly, looking barely alive.
I miss looking pretty.
Please don’t misread that. It’s not a dramatic expression of self-deprecation, a begging plea for affirmation. It’s not. I just miss having someone to dress up for. A reason to get dolled up.
Even after we were married, Robb and I never stopped going on dates. I loved dating him; we had some really fun times together. And I really liked prettying myself, giving him my presented self, doing all my best tricks to bring his admiration from across the table. Because you can never be married too long to long for a longing look.
I recently watched an episode of
Parenthood,
the series that I believe to be excellent TV drama. Julia and Joel were planning a date for their anniversary; with her hair up, she wore a stunning red dress. There in my living room, alone with the TV, I began to cry. I realized I don’t have a reason to wear a red dress.
A night out with the girls can go a long way to lift my spirits, and there’s nothing like an evening adventure with a group of sisters who really want to make me laugh, lift me up, remind me that there is life, within me and around me. And such a night calls for its own wardrobe selection: sassy, confident, ready to embrace a good time. But it doesn’t call for a sexy red dress.
Sometimes, just sometimes, I want to wear the sexy red dress.
Gentlemen, let me show you how it’s done.
—Robb Williford
July 2010
We were on our second honeymoon, a revisit to Cancun, Mexico, ten years after our first visit as newlyweds. When we arrived and checked into our room, we agreed on a couple of ground rules for the trip: (a) we would take off our watches, turn off our cell phones, and have no agenda except what we wanted, when we wanted, preferably a couple of hours later than anything we might have done at home; (b) we would keep the TV turned off. We broke the second rule, but only in mutual agreement to watch season five of
Friends,
albeit in Spanish with subtitles.
Our day hinged on meals. We ate breakfast at who-knew-what time, as long as breakfast was being served. We enjoyed a morning snack on the beach: chips with salsa,
queso,
and guacamole, alongside two margaritas with extra salt. We ate lunch in the late afternoon, and then we took a nap on the beach, by the pool, or in our hotel room, only to wake up whenever we chose. After a day in the sun and the sand, we dressed up for dinner on the island. I wore a new sundress every night of the trip, and we ate a late dinner so we could enjoy the evening atmosphere with the serenade of mariachi bands.
In our succession of meals and Spanish subtitles, we found each other again on that second honeymoon. The third night of our vacation, we chose to finish the night at the hotel bar, just the two of us. Well, the two of us along with most of the other guests at the resort. We hadn’t known about this late-night life, so I came woefully under-dressed in my jammies. Still, we weren’t interested in the crowdedscene, in the karaoke happening on the dance floor; we simply chose a couch in a quiet corner and played cards on the coffee table. I am a lightweight with alcohol, enjoying the flavor far more than the effect, so after one Kahlúa and crème, we drank Diet Cokes with limes.
With grand announcements and obnoxious invitations, the off-key karaoke transitioned into a newlywed game. “Come one, come all! We need four couples on the dance floor!” We exchanged glances, a silent
Should we? Do you want to?
We each shook a nonchalant no. We didn’t need to prove ourselves to each other or anyone else—even if we could totally kick this thing and wipe out the competitors. We went back to our card game. He played, I played, and then he tossed
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