This time of year I’d typically give Dennis several friendly reminders (I think he called it nagging?) about bringing in the hose and shutting the outdoor water supply off. This was on a list among a handful of other items I jokingly referred to as “a man’s job.” You know, car stuff, house stuff, and gross stuff. He was retired and could take on the work. 
Every once in a while one of these tasks comes up, reminding me that acts of service may be one of my love languages after all. Left with no one to nag about taking the car in for the oil change and tire rotation, I did it myself. Of course I’ve done these type of things myself in the past. It sure was nice having the help though.
Well, temperatures are dropping and it is about time for that water shutoff. I had an idea of what needed to be done, but the chore felt so daunting. C’mon, woman, you have a freaking master’s degree. You can figure this out. Why does grief make everything so extra? This is where that anger sneaks it: Dennis, why did you have to die? Why do I have to do this? I’d even let being referred to as a nag slide, maybe just once.
A couple of conversations with experts and a YouTube video or two later, I figured it out. I talked myself out of a panic attack (that’s a water line not a gas line, relax). I did it. Another woman’s job added to my repertoire. Yay, me. Giving myself a gold star. 