In the week after Steve died, I planned for every moment of his service. Right up to the point of what music would play as we walked out of the chapel. After everyone had left, the family waiting outside by their cars, I stood in the foyer of funeral home with a blank look on my face unsure what to do. I hadn't planned for anything past that moment. I was a lost little zombie.
A couple of days after the one year anniversary of Steve's death, my brother-in-law, Butch, called to check on me. And because we have an agreement to never lie, I had to admit I'm feeling a bit unmoored much like after Steve's service concluded. My goal had been to survive the first year. I hadn't planned on anything past that time. I have no idea what comes next.
Butch thinks awhile and says "I know what you need to do".
"Oh yeah? What's that" I ask.
"Go join a local gym," he says.
"Ummmmm." I'm not really liking this idea already.
"Get a personal trainer," he continues.
"Uh huh..." Please oh please don't finish this up with the words triathlon or marathon, I'm thinking.
"And make sure his name is Enrique" he finishes.
...
"Uh. Butch?"
"Yes."
"Are you suggesting I need to get laid?"
"It's been a year. That's all I'm saying."
Had it been anyone else, had it been presented any other way, I'd have been offended. DeRose family trait at it's best, the man had me laughing.
Whatever comes next, I survived the first year.
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