Life is strange, but death is stranger. At least it seems that way to me since certain tastes and little peculiarities of my husband since his death appear to have transferred to me. These have certainly not been conscious acts; I am usually shocked to find myself behaving in such ways.
How to explain my choice of peanut butter? I have always preferred chunky, but bought a second jar of smooth just for Jerry. Only recently as I spread the knife across a slice of bread did I realize I had chosen creamy, and from the low contents of the jar, I had been spreading creamy for quite a while.
Then there are the forks. The set I bought a few years ago has usually large dinner forks, so Jerry began to request only salad forks. Not me. I teased him about this small, delicate mouth. So one day I notice only the salad fork has been at my place setting for a while. How long? I don’t know.
Probably strangest is the coffee mug. I despised that ugly, insulated 7-11 mug he insisted on drinking coffee from. Why couldn’t he use one of the beautiful, hand-painted mugs like me? Then one day I filled an insulated mug (not quite as large or ugly) to take on an early morning trip. You guessed it: that has become my mug of choice.
There are more, but you get the idea. All I can say is, I will certainly get professional help if I ever find myself on the golf course.