Chapter one, number one (part of a seven or perhaps 11-part series)

You know what they say: sometimes you just have to laugh. And why not?

Laughter can be healing. It can be an escape. It lowers stress. It gives a boost to your immune system. It is relaxing. It is stimulating. It increases endorphins and It can provide a respite from an otherwise bleak situation. It can be fun.

And what, if not widowhood, correlates so very closely with laughter? I can’t think of a thing, she said with a wry, all-knowing, sarcastic smile.

Gotcha.

Being a widow has provided a unique, albeit, quirky and (dare I say) weird outlook into the every day and even the mundane. Nothing is expected or unexpected. It is new and heartbreaking and hilarious — all at the same time. 

I hesitate to share, because the humor of widowhood can be dark, or at least dark-ish. But don’t knock it until you’ve lived it. Sometimes you just have to giggle at the pain. 

I do it all the time.

Take this afternoon. I was in a good mood and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and said, rather jokingly, “I hope my boyfriend calls tonight.” Until I remembered… 

I don’t have a boyfriend. 

(A note about sanity here: It is sanctioned and definitely okay to talk to yourself in the mirror when you are a widow. Who else do you have to talk to?)

Back to my mirror, mirror on the wall: My original statement (to myself) was somehow exceedingly humorous to me in that moment. I gave myself a smile in the mirror and said it out loud, “You don’t have a boyfriend.” 

Next, through my giggles I whispered,“Yet.” And that one extra word seemed vindicating in a number of ways. Plus hilarious — and hopeful.

I’ll take hopeful any day, even Tuesday.

But there’s more!

Bedmaking 2.1: I still sleep in “my” side of the bed. Yet when I wash the sheets, I have to do the whole set — both sides. This seems like half a waste — washing half-clean, half-dirty sheets. I wish there was a way to wash half the bed, but I’ve yet to determine a solution to that one. 

Maybe I could sleep on each side of the bed half the time, a night here and a night there, in order to use the sheets evenly.

I thought about this, and then considered the downside. I mean, think about it, a woman sleeping here and there — willy-nilly — depending on the night. It just isn’t for me. I was in a loyal marriage for more than three decades. I didn’t make it this far to engage in behavior that could get me accused of sleeping around — even if it is within my own bed.

Oh goodness, who am I kidding? I’m not nearly that exciting. I don’t even have a TV in my bedroom.

One final example: Remote controls (okay, that’s multiple examples, but you catch my gist.)

I now enjoy possession of the TV remote. And the fan remote. And a remote for which I know not its purpose, but it is a remote and it is mine.

Dang, I’m not lying people, it feels good to actually hold the remote (or maybe three of them) in my two hands.

I’m not going to imply nor allege that I have mastered the control of the remotes. I’ve only been a widow for three years; give me time. But I do have possession, and I’ve heard (from someone I may have been married to) that possession is nine-tenths of the law.

For now that will have to suffice. And in finding congruity with the theme of this column, holding the remotes, while not fully understanding their function, gives me a knowing, wry smile.

I’m smiling more these days, whether it’s in response to the incongruity of widowhood or life in general — or maybe just the fact that I’m alive, the sun is shining and I’m finding new ways to giggle at myself each a day, even if the gal in the mirror is the only one who sees it. 

Isn’t that grand?

— Jill Pertler’s column Slices of Life appears regularly in the Times. She can be reached at 

slicescolumn@gmail.com.