She had already–carefully, obediently–stepped through all the stages of bereavement: anger, denial, bargaining, Häagen-Dazs, rage. Anger to rage–who said she wasn’t making progress?
Lorrie Moore
from “Four Calling Birds, Three French Hens”
As far as I can tell the stages of grief I have moved through have been: shock, euphoria, sorrow, chocolate-covered pretzels, and now finally, anger. The thing is the anger hasn’t been directly about the fire.
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Update: I began this post in the early hours yesterday morning. Almost immediately after that I entered the new stage of rage. Isn’t that funny?
I don’t have time to tell you about it now but I think there might be a cyclist out there who just might be a little bit more circumspect in his dealings with motorists, in general, and almost certainly with female drivers of slow moving mini-vans, specifically.
keep going…
Please, ma’am, I want some more…