Chloe brought me matzo ball soup and Flexoril last night, and then did my dishes. I couldn't convince her that I was okay from the car accident, because the truth is I was stressed out and exhausted. (who, me?) I ended up going to bed at 8:30. At least, I think it was 8:30. It could have been 3:80. I hate drug hangovers.
Ever notice how full of complaining I seem to be? Maybe I should get a life. Or a vacation. Now there's a concept. A vacation that isn't consumed by one of my other two jobs. A last-ditch effort to spend time alone with myself for several days before I-don't-know-what? I've come to realize I'm fiercely afraid of losing my hard-won independence. I've come to know myself by and through it. And now I'm about to latch myself to a distinctly separate person for the remainder of my days. Am I mad?
Remarkable, the sensation of watching myself, wondering aloud if I am about to jump into something headlong, without thinking. How is observing this phenomenon unlike thinking about it? It's why I need so desperately to talk to him this weekend. For long, for real, for good. Without all the distractions that commonly occur in our conversations. Funny stories, other people in our presence because we're on the phone, movies, laundry, his inherent desire to always be multitasking. Okay, I have one too, but I'm able to turn it off and concentrate on the matter at hand for several minutes at a time before I have to get up and sort laundry.
Maybe he thinks that when I get up from the conversation we're having, I'm signaling that it's over. Even sometimes we're driving, which is often when our best conversations take place--but we're still doing something else. We're always doing something eles. We're never just talking.
We need to just talk.
I congratulated myself for waking at all today by going to Main Street Bakery and buying an orange and pecan scone. It's pretty extra-mediocre. Not much of a prize. I miss the cool green fronds of Oscawana, the lake that wraps around your ankles as you float.
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