I've relived this 24 hour period many times in the past ten months. The story has been repeated more times than I prefer to count. So I'm hoping this is the final time. This time, I will put it to rest.
Earlier in the day, I had my final appointment prior to submitting to insurance for weight loss surgery. I had completed six months of appointments with the doctor's office, had cardiology clearance, had pulmonary testing, met with a psychologist. It was a lot of hoops to jump through and I had completed each step. I was planning to schedule surgery the first week of September.
To enjoy the afternoon, we went to a Peruvian restaurant for lunch. The conversation was pleasant and the food was enjoyable. It felt very natural. So we were getting in the car to drive home, and the question came up as to why I asked about the monthly bills for the house. I explained that we were going to determine what portion of the bills my mom would contribute each month. The plan was that in one week, she would move in with us. Living alone was not a good option for her and settlement for the house was in three weeks. Remember this timeline.
Let's backtrack a bit. Earlier in the summer, there was a conversation that involved mom, me and my ex. Mention of my mom paying off the mortgage for ex's house was made. I clearly stated that wasn't appropriate. I know we had at least one other conversation about it, and again, I made my opinion clear- that it wasn't appropriate. Another discussion was held with my mom, sister, brother-in-law and me. The result was that mom would contribute part of the monthly bills. We would figure out the total cost of the bills and divide that. It was a very reasonable plan.
Begin the freak out. Questions of when was this decided, why wasn't he told, when were we planning on telling him flew. It became an irrational situation. I pointed out that paying a portion of monthly expenses was reasonable but couldn't get him to agree. He couldn't even formulate what portion of the bills (not even a percentage) would be acceptable. He kept saying "we had an agreement that the mortgage would be paid off". No amount of rational thinking could change his mind from that. He couldn't recall that I voiced my opinion more than once about that option being unacceptable. "But we had an agreement" was his mantra.
We returned home and he went upstairs to withdraw and sulk. After I few hours, I asked if he was coming downstairs to watch a preseason football game. He was still sulking. I asked him to discuss it. He refused. Then I made a technological error. In trying to respond to my sister, I sent him a text that said he was mad, and being unreasonable and didn't deserve his favorite sandwich that Christie offered to get him. And the shit storm began.
Ranting, a lunatic in front of me, he refused to discuss anything. He was screaming about betrayal, that I went behind his back. He couldn't trust me. More about the agreement he had with my mom. "I want a divorce."
I felt like I had been shot. Not the kind of gunshot wound that would kill, but the kind that is painful with every breath. You don't want to move for fear of making it worse. Just as fast as he stormed in, he stormed back out. Retreating, withdrawing again, this time to his daughter's bedroom (in a reverse Oedipal complex). I gave him time to cool off.
The next morning, when he approached me, I started. "Would you reconsider trying to work things out?" No. And now he had a written list. The things listed were demands of a sort. He wanted a divorce, I could file for it if I wanted. (That was pure laziness on his part. He didn't like paperwork and would balk at the fee to file.) I had 90 days to move out. He really couldn't demand that but he thought that made him powerful. A few other ridiculous items on the list- cancel the DirecTV installation, take my cell phone insurance off his credit card. Dumb stuff. He was going to buy his own groceries from now on. Did he think I was going to poison him? I could still poison his food if he bought his own groceries. He then informed me that he was going to the police station to insure that none of my family would be permitted in his house. And he left.
So I cried. I was already crying but I cried more. I packed an overnight bag and drove to my family who were rock solid. I knew they were strong, but never expected how strong.
Wednesday, June 10, 2020
Monday, June 8, 2020
Forgiveness
I was reminded this weekend of the need for forgiveness. That when I am holding negative feelings in my heart, I am the only one being punished. A few years ago, someone shared with me some interesting thoughts about my feelings of anger and resentment. The suggestion was made that I should wish for them the same things I wish for myself. I would find peace if I prayed that they found strength and contentment.
So I'm not sure I'm at that point right now. I'm trying to get there. I have moments when I feel I've moved past the hurt. While enjoying a walk this weekend, breathing in fresh air and feeling a cool breeze that hinted of summer, I was imagined a conversation that proffered no feelings of ill will. I was so absorbed in my thoughts, I walked right past the turn that would take me back to my home.
There are also moments when I recall anecdotes about revenge. I'm deciding between two statements about revenge as to my personal favorite. The best revenge is living well. This invokes feelings of peace and positive outcomes. Moving on in a healthy direction and realizing bigger and better things to come is a desire of mine. And on a more spiteful note- the best revenge is revenge. I am not sure I would mind hearing about suffering and discord in his life. Not the kind of suffering that would be lifelong pain, I'm just looking for something to cause discomfort and regret.
In a matter of hours, my ex-husband and I went from enjoyable afternoon of lunch and pleasant conversation to a ranting lunatic in front of me. I'm trying to forgive his lapse of judgement. I'm a firm believer that everything happens for a reason. I've come to realize that the outcome is probably the one that would have happened eventually. Things fall into place as part of a plan. I'm impatient at times, waiting for the plan to come to fruition. But in the meantime, I'll work on forgiveness.
I forgive my ex for being irrational, especially when it money and his daughter. I forgive him for being rigid and unable to make adjustments that would include me in his life, instead of keeping me alongside. I forgive him for making promises that he thought he could keep. I forgive him for his desire of material things to improve his life instead of looking inward to find what would meet his needs. I forgive him for thinking of himself first. These are all things that he had little control over; this is stuff that is hard-wired. Expressing these thoughts helps me to realize he may not have made those choices willingly. Those decisions may have been made for him as part of his plan. This is why writing it down is cathartic for me. I might find that peace and forgiveness after all.
So I'm not sure I'm at that point right now. I'm trying to get there. I have moments when I feel I've moved past the hurt. While enjoying a walk this weekend, breathing in fresh air and feeling a cool breeze that hinted of summer, I was imagined a conversation that proffered no feelings of ill will. I was so absorbed in my thoughts, I walked right past the turn that would take me back to my home.
There are also moments when I recall anecdotes about revenge. I'm deciding between two statements about revenge as to my personal favorite. The best revenge is living well. This invokes feelings of peace and positive outcomes. Moving on in a healthy direction and realizing bigger and better things to come is a desire of mine. And on a more spiteful note- the best revenge is revenge. I am not sure I would mind hearing about suffering and discord in his life. Not the kind of suffering that would be lifelong pain, I'm just looking for something to cause discomfort and regret.
In a matter of hours, my ex-husband and I went from enjoyable afternoon of lunch and pleasant conversation to a ranting lunatic in front of me. I'm trying to forgive his lapse of judgement. I'm a firm believer that everything happens for a reason. I've come to realize that the outcome is probably the one that would have happened eventually. Things fall into place as part of a plan. I'm impatient at times, waiting for the plan to come to fruition. But in the meantime, I'll work on forgiveness.
I forgive my ex for being irrational, especially when it money and his daughter. I forgive him for being rigid and unable to make adjustments that would include me in his life, instead of keeping me alongside. I forgive him for making promises that he thought he could keep. I forgive him for his desire of material things to improve his life instead of looking inward to find what would meet his needs. I forgive him for thinking of himself first. These are all things that he had little control over; this is stuff that is hard-wired. Expressing these thoughts helps me to realize he may not have made those choices willingly. Those decisions may have been made for him as part of his plan. This is why writing it down is cathartic for me. I might find that peace and forgiveness after all.
Friday, June 5, 2020
I am
I am a teacher. Six months ago, I used a staffing agency to find employment in a large urban high school as an IEP case manager. Once you embrace the chaos of the organization, it was clear that kids are kids. Adjustments were made to my paradigm. I had to get used to kids wearing hoodies and earbuds all the time. The f-bomb was now a verb, adjective, adverb and noun. Constantly. In defense, it was never used towards me, but there is no hesitation of its use in the hallways. The building is old and huge so my daily struggles included stairs and temperature control. Six staircases, each with 11 steps, I trudged each morning to get the room I was first assigned. I counted them each time. I usually pretended to stop and look out the window half way up to 'admire the view of the city' and catch my breath. After I conquered the steps, I entered a room that could only be described as a prison cell on the sun- cinder block walls, no windows and about 3,000 degrees. Good thing I don't mind wearing short sleeves. All winter. After four months, I was able to interview officially with the district. This was amid the COVID-19 craziness and I'm not sure if it was better or worse to have to teach my sample lesson online. I'm positive some of the administrators were checking email. Or Facebook. It only took them one month to offer me a position. For a district that is desperate and in a mandated shut down, what took so long. I'm proud to be able to say I am a teacher again. I missed it.
I am a medical assistant. I left education when I got married, moved an hour away and couldn't find a teaching job. No one wanted to interview me, let alone hire me. So I switched gears. Plan B. I considered going back to school to be a dental assistant. In order to do so, I had to enroll in a Biology course because it was more than six years that I had taken Biology in college. A lot more than six years had passed but I tried not to think about it. Never mind that I had co-taught high school Biology a year previously. I was sitting in class with students who were struggling to keep up but didn't do their homework. I felt a bond with the instructor because I was the only one who was inquisitive. I was the only one who could answer her questions. When meeting with a representative from the community college, we had a honest conversation about job prospects and continuing my education. Enter Patient First.
In February of 2017, my employment started at Patient first as a full time medical assistant. They did not require certification as a medical assistant and would train with no prior experience. I'm still working there part time. The first time I took vital signs on my own, I was so nervous the sweat was dripping down my face. The trainer waited until we left the patient in the exam room before she heartily laughed at me. It didn't take me long to find my rhythm but that first week or two was awkward and far too serious. After a year of commuting almost an hour each way, I was offered a position six miles from my house. It was there that I felt I was beginning to establish my support system. I didn't have a network to make friends, so that was my starting place. While my tasks at work were routine, I felt that I was competent. Mentally, it wasn't challenging but physically, I felt exhausted. Working first shift, second shift and mid-shift all within the same week led to a terrible sleeping schedule.
As for now, I'm working one weekend a month. During the summer, if additional shifts are available, I'm able to pick and choose what I want. As we are in midst of COVID-19 testing, I can work in a tent to help collect swabs. (I feel completely safe as I am not collecting the swab.)
I am a daughter. Ten months ago, my then husband announced that he wanted a divorce and that I should move out of the house. It wasn't an announcement, it was more like raging in a histrionic fit. And since my mom's house was due to be sold in three weeks and she was supposed to move into our house, we had to make a quick plan. Being over the age of 80, living on her own wasn't a good option. So, she and I found a two bedroom apartment, set up movers, packed everything and became roommates.
I am a sister. My sister is a great support for me, lives a few minutes away and we talk every day. As if time has not passed, our jokes and teasing become juvenile quickly. We bond over the trials of dealing with our mother and her care. My brother is another story. Recently we have bonded over 90 Day Fiance. We will Houseparty during the commercial breaks which gives us the right amount of time we need to catch up with each other's lives. Our relationship is a bit awkward because he was estranged from my parents for the last seven years or so.
I am a friend, at least according to Facebook. My connection with friends is not what I would like. While living in York, I had acquaintances at work, but no deep seated connections. Upon returning to where I spent most of my time, my friends and I don't share as much in common. I feel out of place, like I don't belong. I'm middle aged but in my mind, I'm an gawky adolescent who can't make friends. An introvert by nature, I will have to force myself to be outgoing. But that will have to wait until the next school year starts. Until then, I will retreat into novels, chick flicks I've watched dozens of time, and reruns of Law and Order. They will be my friends.
I am a medical assistant. I left education when I got married, moved an hour away and couldn't find a teaching job. No one wanted to interview me, let alone hire me. So I switched gears. Plan B. I considered going back to school to be a dental assistant. In order to do so, I had to enroll in a Biology course because it was more than six years that I had taken Biology in college. A lot more than six years had passed but I tried not to think about it. Never mind that I had co-taught high school Biology a year previously. I was sitting in class with students who were struggling to keep up but didn't do their homework. I felt a bond with the instructor because I was the only one who was inquisitive. I was the only one who could answer her questions. When meeting with a representative from the community college, we had a honest conversation about job prospects and continuing my education. Enter Patient First.
In February of 2017, my employment started at Patient first as a full time medical assistant. They did not require certification as a medical assistant and would train with no prior experience. I'm still working there part time. The first time I took vital signs on my own, I was so nervous the sweat was dripping down my face. The trainer waited until we left the patient in the exam room before she heartily laughed at me. It didn't take me long to find my rhythm but that first week or two was awkward and far too serious. After a year of commuting almost an hour each way, I was offered a position six miles from my house. It was there that I felt I was beginning to establish my support system. I didn't have a network to make friends, so that was my starting place. While my tasks at work were routine, I felt that I was competent. Mentally, it wasn't challenging but physically, I felt exhausted. Working first shift, second shift and mid-shift all within the same week led to a terrible sleeping schedule.
As for now, I'm working one weekend a month. During the summer, if additional shifts are available, I'm able to pick and choose what I want. As we are in midst of COVID-19 testing, I can work in a tent to help collect swabs. (I feel completely safe as I am not collecting the swab.)
I am a daughter. Ten months ago, my then husband announced that he wanted a divorce and that I should move out of the house. It wasn't an announcement, it was more like raging in a histrionic fit. And since my mom's house was due to be sold in three weeks and she was supposed to move into our house, we had to make a quick plan. Being over the age of 80, living on her own wasn't a good option. So, she and I found a two bedroom apartment, set up movers, packed everything and became roommates.
I am a sister. My sister is a great support for me, lives a few minutes away and we talk every day. As if time has not passed, our jokes and teasing become juvenile quickly. We bond over the trials of dealing with our mother and her care. My brother is another story. Recently we have bonded over 90 Day Fiance. We will Houseparty during the commercial breaks which gives us the right amount of time we need to catch up with each other's lives. Our relationship is a bit awkward because he was estranged from my parents for the last seven years or so.
I am a friend, at least according to Facebook. My connection with friends is not what I would like. While living in York, I had acquaintances at work, but no deep seated connections. Upon returning to where I spent most of my time, my friends and I don't share as much in common. I feel out of place, like I don't belong. I'm middle aged but in my mind, I'm an gawky adolescent who can't make friends. An introvert by nature, I will have to force myself to be outgoing. But that will have to wait until the next school year starts. Until then, I will retreat into novels, chick flicks I've watched dozens of time, and reruns of Law and Order. They will be my friends.
Wednesday, June 3, 2020
Fun
I'm a different person than I was before. Before divorce. Before marriage. Before. I guess that makes this...after. That's not to say I know who I am 'after'. I'm still figuring that out. It's more challenging than you think to try to figure out who you are when you are close to turning 50. It's an existential struggle wrapped up in a mid-life crisis. And it's painful some days.
In the past five years, I've lost myself. When asked what I like to do for fun, I don't know. How did that happen? After my last move, I've downsized my crafting supplies- not that I really crafted much recently. Adult coloring might interest me, but not that I've done anything about it. Reading is something I enjoy but I'm starting to think it is just another way to escape. Cooking is something I do but I'm not making anything exciting these days. That's it. I'm out.
Here's a list of things I do, but not things I like: walking, exercising, working, repeating what I say when my mom doesn't have her hearing aid in. I want to enjoy watching sports again. COVID-19 crushed that. I'm missing the Olympics and OTAs for football. We're supposed to have NHL playoffs, but when I ask you, when? Dear Lord, I'd even watch baseball or basketball at this point.
As a adult, how do you learn hobbies? How do you rediscover your passions? How can I learn how to be fun again? That's really my issue. I feel like I'm not fun anymore. I just finished Shonda Rhimes' Year of Yes. Shonda would be proud of me because I'm saying yes to fun.
In the past five years, I've lost myself. When asked what I like to do for fun, I don't know. How did that happen? After my last move, I've downsized my crafting supplies- not that I really crafted much recently. Adult coloring might interest me, but not that I've done anything about it. Reading is something I enjoy but I'm starting to think it is just another way to escape. Cooking is something I do but I'm not making anything exciting these days. That's it. I'm out.
Here's a list of things I do, but not things I like: walking, exercising, working, repeating what I say when my mom doesn't have her hearing aid in. I want to enjoy watching sports again. COVID-19 crushed that. I'm missing the Olympics and OTAs for football. We're supposed to have NHL playoffs, but when I ask you, when? Dear Lord, I'd even watch baseball or basketball at this point.
As a adult, how do you learn hobbies? How do you rediscover your passions? How can I learn how to be fun again? That's really my issue. I feel like I'm not fun anymore. I just finished Shonda Rhimes' Year of Yes. Shonda would be proud of me because I'm saying yes to fun.
Tuesday, June 2, 2020
Long overdue
Six years is a long time. One of my favorite songs by The Indigo Girls has a line, "Every five years or so, I look back at my life and I have a good laugh." Now I'm laughing. I wouldn't have said that in ten months ago, or six months ago, or even last month. There are so many things that have occurred in the last six years that have impacted my life in such major, life-altering ways. I got engaged, married and divorced. I've lost a parent. I've moved. I've started a new job. All those life stressing events and most of them were in the last nine months. Shit- I'm lucky I'm still standing upright and forming complete sentences. Oh, I have my moments, curled up in my bed, avoiding reality for hours until I hit a socially acceptable time to give up and go to bed for the night. My hopes are that the following day will be better. That somehow that fog of depression and hopelessness will ease. Some days it does. And as a single girl, again, here are my chronicles.
Monday, April 21, 2014
The Difference a Year Makes
Exactly one year ago I wrote my first blog post. It was a very late Sunday night, and I needed to purge the thoughts swirling through my brain to even consider sleep. I still remember the sickening feeling I had in my stomach. What had I signed up for? What did I expect from the matchmaking service? I was nervous, excited and nauseous at the thought of who they would find for me to meet, and more importantly, getting feedback on how to get better at dating. Time is a funny thing. It seems like such a long time ago. If I had been asked in January, I probably wouldn't have said that. I could have recited the calendar dates of the meetings they set up. I could share vivid details of outfits I wore, what I ordered, when there were lulls in the conversation.
Three months ago, I met Jose. It seems like I've known him longer than three months. We've yet to have a lull in a conversation. That doesn't mean one of us is talking every second we're together but our conversations easily flow from one subject to another. We've discussed things as simple as his hatred of hard boiled eggs, my hatred towards the Baltimore Ravens to as serious as combining finances and households. And I'm not freaking out. Neither is he. I know there is still a lot of work and learning and compromise to be done. I'm not foolish to think this will be easy. But we've tackled one situation- the meeting of the family- with flying colors. My parents really liked him, and we enjoyed Easter dinner together. I was more nervous about being late or overcooking the vegetables than what they would think of him. I knew they would get along with him. To meet most of his family, we'd have to travel to Peru. He asked me if I would go with him, and I would. Realistically, that wouldn't happen for at least six months, probably the summer of 2015. Planning something for a year from now doesn't seem crazy.
Things have changed in the past year. I joined Weight Watchers and have lost 40 pounds. I'll be going for a long time because I have more to lose. I started using a Couch to 5K app. I remember when running for 3 minutes felt like torture. My first 5K is in three weeks. And I have more scheduled. The most importance difference from a year ago? I was feeling restless, discontent. My sister would refer to it as my 'tumbleweed' stage. Whatever you call it, it's not there anymore. I'm happy. That's really all I've wanted in life, to be happy. In most movies I watch or books I read, I always root for a happy ending. Call it childish or unrealistic, it's always better if there's a happy ending. Time will tell if I finally found my own happy ending.
Three months ago, I met Jose. It seems like I've known him longer than three months. We've yet to have a lull in a conversation. That doesn't mean one of us is talking every second we're together but our conversations easily flow from one subject to another. We've discussed things as simple as his hatred of hard boiled eggs, my hatred towards the Baltimore Ravens to as serious as combining finances and households. And I'm not freaking out. Neither is he. I know there is still a lot of work and learning and compromise to be done. I'm not foolish to think this will be easy. But we've tackled one situation- the meeting of the family- with flying colors. My parents really liked him, and we enjoyed Easter dinner together. I was more nervous about being late or overcooking the vegetables than what they would think of him. I knew they would get along with him. To meet most of his family, we'd have to travel to Peru. He asked me if I would go with him, and I would. Realistically, that wouldn't happen for at least six months, probably the summer of 2015. Planning something for a year from now doesn't seem crazy.
Things have changed in the past year. I joined Weight Watchers and have lost 40 pounds. I'll be going for a long time because I have more to lose. I started using a Couch to 5K app. I remember when running for 3 minutes felt like torture. My first 5K is in three weeks. And I have more scheduled. The most importance difference from a year ago? I was feeling restless, discontent. My sister would refer to it as my 'tumbleweed' stage. Whatever you call it, it's not there anymore. I'm happy. That's really all I've wanted in life, to be happy. In most movies I watch or books I read, I always root for a happy ending. Call it childish or unrealistic, it's always better if there's a happy ending. Time will tell if I finally found my own happy ending.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Footloose and timing
We're finally getting true spring (almost summer) weather for more than two days in a row. My dogs are about to OD on fresh air unless they first collapse from sniffing the perimeter of the deck all day long. And I mean all day. I love having the windows open, feeling fresh air. I'd feel better if I got more accomplished, but there will be rainy weekend for that.
Our Senior High put on their musical this weekend. Jose and I went on Saturday to see Footloose and had such a fun night. It was such a great production and I love seeing kids that have grown so much in such a short time. Awkward seventh and eighth graders turn into real people after they leave the junior high. And who doesn't love some nostalgia.
Before the play, I went through my closet to sort out what could be donated and what I could wear. That meant trying almost everything on. I made the mistake of asking Jose to help me. It was comical how we kept having the same conversation. "Is this too big?' He'd tell me it was too casual to wear to school, or it depended on what top I wore with it, or I could wear it to do yard work or could wear it around the house. "OK, but does it look to baggy to wear in front of other people?" Most times the answer was yes, but only after great debate. Then he was giving me advice on keeping some things that were one size bigger, in case I needed them later. I wasn't about to tell me that's not how women work. Pants that don't fit are the best motivation for dieting. And I got rid of all the clothes from years ago that were too small at the time. The reasons are that I knew that if I lost enough weight to fit into them they would be out of style, and more importantly, I deserved new clothes. That's my plan for tomorrow.
As we got ready to head to the high school for the play, I was putting on make up and Jose was changing his clothes. We're chatting about the hockey game, and general things that I can't even remember right now. Probably the dogs. Out of nowhere, he asks if I've thought about what would happen if things would progress between us. Whoa. I knew what he was really asking. Who is moving? Keep in mind, I'm trying to find earrings that match and make sure that I grab the two bronze shoes with heels and buckles, as opposed to the ones that are almost exactly the same except they are black with no buckles. Or the ones that are brown with no buckles. So I dodge this by saying, I have thought about it. And I keep searching for shoes. The conversation continues. At this point, I'm not sure who asked the next question. I tell him I've thought about it and thought about what it would be like to commute. He had a chance to say he's thought about it too. While I'm sure there is some literary term to describe the suspense building, waiting to hear his plans or my views on this important topic. But remember, I'm still digging in my closet for matching shoes. So I suggest that we finish this conversation when we have more time and when I don't have my head in a closet. I'm not sure how to finish that conversation. As I've driven to his house and back, I've imagined what it might be like to commute. It's a full hour. The worse part seems to be the intersection of 222 and 30. Well, really, the worst part would be leaving my house at 6 AM. In. The. Morning. Do you know what time I'd have to get up in the morning? I'd have to be a morning person. Or I'd need a bigger travel mug for coffee. Yes, that is a much more reasonable option. So is that scary for a girl to mention? That I've thought about moving into his house after two and a half months? I wish he had a blog I could stalk. That would make this so much easier.
Our Senior High put on their musical this weekend. Jose and I went on Saturday to see Footloose and had such a fun night. It was such a great production and I love seeing kids that have grown so much in such a short time. Awkward seventh and eighth graders turn into real people after they leave the junior high. And who doesn't love some nostalgia.
Before the play, I went through my closet to sort out what could be donated and what I could wear. That meant trying almost everything on. I made the mistake of asking Jose to help me. It was comical how we kept having the same conversation. "Is this too big?' He'd tell me it was too casual to wear to school, or it depended on what top I wore with it, or I could wear it to do yard work or could wear it around the house. "OK, but does it look to baggy to wear in front of other people?" Most times the answer was yes, but only after great debate. Then he was giving me advice on keeping some things that were one size bigger, in case I needed them later. I wasn't about to tell me that's not how women work. Pants that don't fit are the best motivation for dieting. And I got rid of all the clothes from years ago that were too small at the time. The reasons are that I knew that if I lost enough weight to fit into them they would be out of style, and more importantly, I deserved new clothes. That's my plan for tomorrow.
As we got ready to head to the high school for the play, I was putting on make up and Jose was changing his clothes. We're chatting about the hockey game, and general things that I can't even remember right now. Probably the dogs. Out of nowhere, he asks if I've thought about what would happen if things would progress between us. Whoa. I knew what he was really asking. Who is moving? Keep in mind, I'm trying to find earrings that match and make sure that I grab the two bronze shoes with heels and buckles, as opposed to the ones that are almost exactly the same except they are black with no buckles. Or the ones that are brown with no buckles. So I dodge this by saying, I have thought about it. And I keep searching for shoes. The conversation continues. At this point, I'm not sure who asked the next question. I tell him I've thought about it and thought about what it would be like to commute. He had a chance to say he's thought about it too. While I'm sure there is some literary term to describe the suspense building, waiting to hear his plans or my views on this important topic. But remember, I'm still digging in my closet for matching shoes. So I suggest that we finish this conversation when we have more time and when I don't have my head in a closet. I'm not sure how to finish that conversation. As I've driven to his house and back, I've imagined what it might be like to commute. It's a full hour. The worse part seems to be the intersection of 222 and 30. Well, really, the worst part would be leaving my house at 6 AM. In. The. Morning. Do you know what time I'd have to get up in the morning? I'd have to be a morning person. Or I'd need a bigger travel mug for coffee. Yes, that is a much more reasonable option. So is that scary for a girl to mention? That I've thought about moving into his house after two and a half months? I wish he had a blog I could stalk. That would make this so much easier.
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