Where I’ve Never Been

The package full of bikinis and beach dresses will likely never be worn. I’ve never been to the beach, and my plans to go for the first time were canceled before we’d even settled on a country. Considering the sadness of it, led me to think of all the other things I haven’t done in life.

Source of Conflict

I’ve recently begun to wonder whether I’m capable of sustaining any kind of peaceful relationship with anyone I care about. I’ve had periods of happiness, for certain; but any sort of long-term coexistence seems near impossible. It is often said that in order to be peaceful with others, you must first find peace within yourself. And…that is where it breaks down for me.

Stranger in a Stranger Land

I loved these events more than anything in the world growing up. It was the same, every time. The aunts and uncles, and great-aunts, would gather in their gathering places: women in the kitchen, men in the living room. The women would converse and bicker over the “right” way to prepare each dish, while sharing affection and laughter. The men would talk about farming and economics how bad things looked while Granddaddy sat in his rocker, smoking, leg propped over the side. The younger kids would play games, and the boys would either join in the “man” conversation or watch football.

Shrinking Hyacinth

I have a weight problem.

Every woman thinks this to be the case.  We stare at ourselves in mirrors, taking mental inventory of every flaw, every bump, every distasteful curve, and we attack our own senses of what is acceptable.  We second-guess decisions we’ve made:  that tempting doughnut at the office; that extra slice of pie at the family dinner; the “go ahead, give me the whipped cream!” on our fancy coffee.  We refuse to accept what we see, as beautiful and right.

But my problem is not that I eat too much, nor that I see fat when I look in the mirror.  It is that I’m wasting away.

I’ve always been curvy, the classic hourglass shape that most men desire and most women hate.  Even at my heaviest–148 pounds of solid muscle while working as a laborer–I was the same shape, and I loved my ass.  I’ve never hesitated to eat what I want, when I want, save for one loooooooooong summer on Lean Cuisine and too much exercise.  My weight has fluctuated in adulthood, and often displays a reaction to emotional trauma.  But I’ve stayed within a couple of sizes, for the most part.

I first noticed a difference on my very first date with Daniel.  I had only 20 minutes to get ready, and happened to throw on my very skinniest jeans, which have always been far too tight.  (They were survivors of the Married Guy phase.)  They fit just fine.  I thought nothing of it, other than how lucky it was.

While we were together, I spent a lot of time in the evenings not making dinner, waiting to see whether his nights would free up.  Many nights, he did call, and we did enjoy late dinners.  (Many more times, not.)  In my mind, the fear was that this would actually cause me to gain weight.  It didn’t.

The four pairs of pants I purchased when I started at Graples had grown loose by the end of summer.  While it was an annoyance, it affected me very little.  Every so often, people would comment that I looked like I’d lost weight.  At first, it was flattering.  As fall came closer and I continued my new “relationship,” Daniel commented less and less on my “plumpy” butt, which had been the primary source of his attraction to me.  I assumed that he was less interested in me as a person.  It didn’t dawn on me that my ass was actually disappearing…until he pointed it out.

When my parents visited in October, all my mother talked about was how skinny I’d gotten.  She went as far as to say I looked “sick.”  I disagreed.  I still had my famous saddlebags (thanks, Grandma Anna!), and every so often I could detect the slightest hint of a muffin top.  It was true, my belts were becoming unusable.  But there was nothing wrong with me.  I thought.

A few days after I broke up with him, I sat down with Daniel to discuss our new relationship as business associates.  He confronted me–as kindly as possible–on my weight loss.  He wondered whether I was starving because my money issues had grown unmanageable; or whether my emotions were causing me not to desire food.  At the time, I did not answer.  He thought I was being evasive.  The truth was, I had no answer.

Looking back, I’m not sure how it happened.  I’ve always been an eater.  Most nights, I would make myself a decent meal, cooking two servings of everything so I’d have leftovers for lunch the next day.  When I came home to walk the dogs, I would snarf whatever it was, and consider what was for dinner later that night.  Occasionally, I would skip a meal, either because of a lack of time or a lack of interest.  I always made it up in snacks and drinks.

Somewhere along the line, something changed.  When I returned from Kansas in June, I felt perhaps more alone than I had before.  It seemed unnatural to be cooking and dining all the time.  During the back-to-school season at work, I was so busy and burned out that I couldn’t think of eating.  When the season ended, I was able to sleep more regularly.  But I didn’t return to eating.

I won’t lie, I did enjoy eating out with Daniel, every single time.  He took me to places I’d never been, and I continued to order the same size portions I’d always enjoyed.  Only there was something about it I no longer enjoyed.  It had nothing to do with him.  It was me.  The food was exquisite, in most cases.  But my desire for it, my enjoyment of it, was off balance.  Eventually, he started feeding me at the inn, whatever he had made that night’s dinner guests.  I think now that he was attempting to find something, anything, I’d enjoy, in an attempt to “fatten me up.”

There is nothing in my closet that fits me.  I have to live with it, right now.  The clothing budget I used to keep has shrunk along with my bust size.  There is no money for new pants, for work or for play.  The clothing I have purchased this fall–on extreme clearance, and mostly for dates I will now never go on–is already too big, and would cost money to alter.

When dinnertime came tonight, I considered it.  I’ve been told I need to view food as “medicine,” just a requirement to keep me alive, until my enjoyment of it returns.  But when I considered it, I let dinnertime pass.  I just don’t want it.  Am I emotionally upset?  Perhaps.  I can no longer guage what “upset” looks like.  Am I broke?  I am.  So which came first?  I have no idea.

Last week, a coworker couldn’t see me standing behind a stanchion sign, and began joking about how skinny I was.  I started to cry.  I went to the doctor and got a physical.  All my tests were normal.  When I got on the scale and the nurse weighed me, clothed, at 124 pounds, my eyes filled with tears.  I could not explain why I’d changed so much.

I spent most of today grasping at my waistband–which is now a good 5 inches too big–and re-tucking my shirt to keep my pants up.  But I could see the empty bulges in the fabric where my hips were supposed to be, and it made me upset.  It made me so upset that I lost my appetite.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.  I’m not sure what to expect, I only know that I will go, and there will be food, and I will be torn as to whether I want it.  I will eat it anyway–not nearly as much as I once could–and I will be thankful to have anything to eat at all.  I will pat my belly, and pretend to be very full and satisfied.  But I know that when all is said and done, and my plate is clean, I will still feel empty inside.  Empty, but not hungry.

Quickly Walking Nowhere

Because the sun now sets in the four o’ clock hour here, my walks with the dogs most often occur in the chilly pitch black of early evening. While I’m not entirely secure in the safety of Hoosick Falls post-dark, I do not mind the efficiency and focused determination with which the dogs walk at night. I find it far superior to the pointless meandering and rambunctiousness of the daytime.

Foreigner Never Was My Favorite Band Anyway.

 For the past few months, I’ve sporadically written about my “romance” with The Colombian, Daniel Tarquino.  I’ve glossed over the ugly parts, somewhat, both in my writing and in my own mind.  I convinced myself that the issues that were developing between us were all my fault, because I was too emotional or to unskilled in the ways of love.  I thought I’d have a hard time getting over him, when he finally said it was over.  But Dan just made it incredibly easy to get over him.  He also convinced me that there is nothing wrong with me.  It’s him.  He’s a sick, sadistic, misogynistic bastard.

The last time I was there painting, before this weekend–I think it was Tuesday–he announced that Melissa (also known in my posts as Cy Kobiotch) would be there later to pick up her stuff.  (Their relationship drama has dragged on and on, and he’d finally convinced me that she was completely looney.)  He seemed to think she might confront me if I were seen.  I spent the next two hours locked in the room I was painting, shaking.  I thought she was there the whole time.  Then the next day he told me she had never been there after all.

Yesterday morning when I arrived to paint–and bear in mind, ALL of these schedules were pre-arranged by me with him–her car was there.  I went into my room and texted him.  “Bad timing huh??”  He said she was there getting some of her stuff, and if she confronted me, I was “just the painter.”  So that was nerve-wracking, waiting to see if she popped in while I could hear her right outside the door, talking loudly to guests, “Dan-and-I-this,” “Dan-and-I-that….”  When she went to leave, she sat there for a long time.  Her suv was facing directly the window in which I was working.  I could feel her watching me.  I was extremely uncomfortable.

But Dan made me lunch a while later, and I was thinking, Okay, she’s gone now, and things are fine.  We are being civil and polite and he doesn’t seem to be toying with me anymore.  It had been a long couple of weeks, full of arguments and makeups and renegotiating our relationship into something workable.

Then I went back there at 3 to continue on.  He knew I was working til 7 or 7:30.  At about 5:15, he popped into the room to comment on the work so far.  “Oh, and I don’t want to upset you…I am only telling you so you won’t be caught off guard.  Carol and Alyssa are not available tonight, and Sarah has her girls’ night out, which I didn’t know, and I have three rooms for dinner, so I asked Melissa to come back and serve.”

I started to sweat, and my mouth dropped open.  Could he possibly be serious?

Then he nonchalantly started telling me this “funny story” about how, that morning, she had announced that she had just bought a handgun.  He said he asked her, “Are you going to shoot me with it?”  and she replied, “No.  I want you to suffer.  Why would I shoot YOU?”  He was sort of chuckling about this.

My heart was pounding now.  “Uh, did you make sure you told her YOU DON’T LIKE ME ANYMORE??  Because that would be a way to make you suffer, Jackass, to shoot me instead!”  He didn’t say I shouldn’t be scared, he just repeated the story again.  Then he said, “Oh, I need a favor.  I need to run to the store.  Can you check in the two rooms if they come in?”

He left.  I was sweating and shaking like crazy.  I called Shelly Belly.  I asked her, since my instinct was telling me to pack up my shit and get out…but my instincts are shaky lately.  “Should I be leaving?”  She said Hell Yes, get the F out of there.  He is setting you up.  He is messing with your head.  He is trying to get you to have a confrontation with her, and she is now crazy AND has a gun.  Leave now.

As I was telling her Okay, I’ll finish this window and clean up and leave, guess who pulls into the lot?

She parks in that same spot, backs in so she is facing the window I’m working in.  “Oh F, Michelle, she’s here.” 

“Get the F out of there.  Now.  Just go.”

I was really shaking now, as I realized she was hesitating getting out of the car.  “Well it’s too late now.  She sees me.  I’m here.  If she’s going to shoot me, she’s going to shoot me.  But don’t hang up.”  I kept the line open with Michelle for two hours, door locked–which was pointless because Melissa knows where the keys are–while I continued on to a stopping point.  I have never painted so fast in my life.  While shaking.  I could hear here out there clanking dishes and whatnot.

I assumed they would finish the evening working together, bickering–because that’s what they do–and then he would have sex with her.  Because that’s who he is.  I texted him after I left that I was sure I would see them both first thing in the morning.  Then I thought better of it, and texted him again, that I would not return at any point that she might be there, so he needed to tell me in advance when she was.  He didn’t text back.  This morning, I texted him that I needed to paint today, and asked whether it was a Melissa-free day.  He didn’t text back.

Going there, I knew that if her car was still there, I was going to get my shit and leave.  I drove in, praying that it wouldn’t be the case.  Of course, it was.

I popped my barn doors, walked in to the inn, and started gathering my things.  There were guests waiting to check out.  They tried to ask me to check them out.  “I’m just the painter.  Someone will be right out.”  I brushed past them with my tool box while Carol came out and noticed them, and went to get Dan.  I was halfway done gathering my shit when he finished with them and came in to the room.  “What’s going on?”  Like he was totally mystified.

I gestured toward her car in the lot.  “I can see your girlfriend is still here.  You have been trying to set up a confrontation between us for days, and I told you I’m not having it.  So I’m leaving.”  He just turned around and walked out.  Left.  Disappeared.  I kept loading up.

Brett and his little girlfriend Britney were in the bar area now.  He hollered out to me, “How’s the painting going?  Are you done yet?”  I gestured at him to come and look at it.  As he approached, he asked, “Is it done?”

“It’s as done as it’s going to get, unless Melissa wants to finish it.”  He looked confused.  I gave him and Britney a brief rundown of the last couple days.  Britney’s eyes were wide the whole time.  “So this guy is just looking for drama.  You are smart to get away from him.”

“Yeah, he’s setting up some kind of weird triangle here,” said Brett, who is very friendly with Dan and obviously knows more than he’s going to let on.  He is always the one Dan goes out with when he blows me off, though he seems to be a decent guy.  “But she’s gone though, right?”  I pointed to her car in the lot.  He turned back around with his eyes all big, and his voice fell to a whisper.  “No f-ing way!”  He was gesturing all big with his hands, but his voice was silent.  “She is completely nuts!  You need to get out of here!  That bitch is crazy!  But she said that Dan was the one stalking her!  I don’t know why she would still be here!”

I told them both that Dan had tried to convince me I was the crazy one.  Brett apologized for his part in things.  He said he didn’t know everything that had been going on.  He was confused and now, concerned.  He said he’d see me at Graples tomorrow so he could ship a package.  Britney said, “Stay away from this guy.  It sounds like he’s bad news.”  I took my stuff and left.

I feel mad and a little upset, but there are no tears.  I can’t afford any more tears.  It was only a few months, and I learned some lessons from it.  I made a lot of mistakes, for sure.  None of what I was with Dan is who I want to be.  Yes, I was fascinated with him and his business.  Yes, it made me want a different kind of life, and reminded me that my current job is not satisfying my needs (neither financial nor intellectual).  Yes, it introduced me to some people around town.  But that bastard hurt me and treated me like garbage, and gave only enough to keep me around so he could play with me some more.  I am done.  The train has pulled out of the station and I am no longer on it.

I was super-bummed about losing the work, as I really wanted to do the job!  I had so many cool plans for the inn.  There were 7 more guest rooms and I was re-doing the bistro and the bar, and I hate to give it up.  But the trade-off was my heart, which is not a fair trade.

I thought the drama was done for the day…but then….

Early in the afternoon, I texted Dan, when I realized I was missing something.  “I forgot my book on the dresser.  Send it with Brett to Graples, please.”

A while later, he called.  I answered.  I said, “What?”

He started on a tear.  “You are the most miserable, waste–”  I hung up.

I texted him a little while later, and said, “I will take your calls only when they come with an apology for scaring the shit out of me.  Go F yourself.”

Then we started in on this whole back-and-forth, him saying he felt sorry for me because I was pathetic, and me saying I didn’t care what some gay liar thought of me.  I got his bill ready, and sent it to the inn’s email address.  I also sent him a personal email, telling him that he was a liar, and that beyond his paying me, I didn’t want any further contact.

At about 3:30, I picked up my phone to look at one of my text messages, and as it swung open, it was just starting to ring.  It was Dan.  I decided to say something, since I had accidentally picked it up.  “I’m glad you answered the phone.  You have no idea who you are fucking with.  I hope you have a big fucking bodyguard, because I am going to fuck you up.  You have no idea who you just messed with.”  And he hung up.

I was terrified.  This was so much worse than anything I could have imagined.  He sounded really mean and scary, like a Colombian drug lord.  I wasn’t sure what to do.  I called Michelle again.  She convinced me I should be calling the police.  But which ones??

I finally did.  The Hoosick Falls ones.  I told them I had received a threatening phone call and wasn’t sure what to do, and said I needed someone to come and take a statement.  They said they would.  While I was waiting, I texted Dan again, in case he still planned on coming to “fuck me up”:  “The police are on their way here.  Americans can’t threaten one another with harm.  I never threatened you.  You just crossed a HUGE line.”  Then the police called me back.  They took my statement over the phone.  They basically said they could go arrest him, and press charges, in which case he would just get a ticket, or just write it up as a report.  What did I want them to do?  Was I afraid for my life? 

I decided that had I been in immediate danger, he would have shown up by now.  So I said to make a report, and asked what to do if, in the future, I needed an order of protection.  I didn’t want protection.  I wanted all this resolved.  I wanted my money, and I wanted peace between me and Dan, and I just wanted to say goodbye and be done with it.

Soon, Dan texted me back and revealed his game.  “I am tired of ur games and lies.  We r done so please leave me alone.  I have not threatned you.  But I did break up with u.  LEAVE ME ALONE!!!”

Oh, shit.  I see what he is doing.  He is trying to make it look as though I am harassing HIM, and he isn’t going to pay me!  I texted him back again–and yes, this was against my better judgment:  “You just told me you were going to fuck me up, and said I needed a bodyguard.”

He texted me back, closing the deal.  I expect the Bennington PD at any moment:  “R u nuts?  go tell those stories to your blog.  I said enough.  Stop contacting me.  At ALL.”

But I couldn’t let it go.  He thinks he’s got me over a barrel.  “Pay your bill and we’re done.  I know you think you are working the system here trying to make me look like the harasser.  You owe me money.”  At his point, I knew I should just drop it.  He has decided to make trouble for me, and he is solid in his resolve.  Clearly I am really finding out what he is made of here.  All the “crazy Melissa” stories are taking on a new shape.

I will never see my money.  And this will always be a horrid memory.  I only hope he doesn’t drag this out and bring the cops into it.  That’s MY job!!  He’s the one who lied to me constantly, he’s the one who used me, he’s the one who threatened me, he’s the one who let me work there and didn’t pay me!  I am the injured party here!!  And he’s making me look like the bad guy from the outside.  The only thing I have going for me is a crazy lady, who he apparently did the same thing to.  And maybe the judge will remember how he went to court and “took it back” in her case.  Oh yeah, and I’m actually an American citizen with a valid driver’s license.

He once told me he had a rage problem.  He was half-asleep.  He said that he didn’t believe in justice, or in the system.  He felt that when someone wronged you, you should do whatever it took to take them down.  He said he was not afraid of killing someone, or permanently f-ing up their life, if they messed with him in the wrong way.  At the time, I didn’t think much of it, except that it was my first look into his scary side.  I know…I know…and now you are thinking that was one of those moments when I should have seen this coming.  Dude, I can see this shit coming and still let it happen anyway.  It’s the writer in me.

I’m not sure why I didn’t let him go that very first week, when his relationship–or, I thought, “former” relationship–with Melissa kept getting in the way.  I’m not sure why I didn’t say goodbye the very first time his silent rage reared its ugly head, making me cry and feel so alone.  I’m not sure why I didn’t see it the first time I caught him in a lie.  I don’t know why I didn’t stick to my guns the first time I broke it off with him, after witnessing him beating and kicking his dogs.  I can’t say why I continued to spend time with him, begging for second chances and trying to “understand” his dark moods and unjustified anger.  All I do know is that at some point, I lost trust in my own instincts.  I stopped believing that I knew the right thing to do.  I stopped listening to me, because he convinced me I was crazy.  For some reason, I wanted to believe it.

I don’t know what will happen next.  I don’t intend to shut down this time, or to hide in my house for the next nine months, the way I did with The Bill.  I’ve grown up enough to know that you can’t give up when some man tries to do a number on your head.  You have to keep seeking, keep trusting, keep trying to hear yourself and do the right thing.

I hate that I let him come between me and The Zoo.  Ina Hall sat languishing while I worked on The Alexandra.  Katie spent too much time alone.  Little Willie grew into a funny cat while I was out galavanting.  Biscuit nearly died from infection.  And Carter just got older.  I hate that I let that happen.

No more, Fans.  No more nonsense.  No more Colombians, no more Romance, no more depression, and no more denial.  I’m back.  I’m back to stay.  And I won’t give up again.

Hasty Putting

I have this problem with my temper.  I know…hard to believe.  But it’s true.  I fly off the handle without warning.  I fly fast and hard.  My targets never know what hit them, and are often sucked under in my wake.  And my favorite new target?  The Colombian.

He makes it very easy to be angry.  I’ve dated inconsiderate men before–in fact, in my experience, that is pretty much what men are.  They don’t call when they said they would, they don’t tell you what they’re doing, and they often don’t show up when you have plans.  If this is just the way men are, is my anger ever justified?  If they cannot control this behavior, can I really hold them accountable to it?

Last week, I famously dumped The Colombian after he did something that made me truly sick.  The act itself was bad enough, and probably earned him a figurative bitchslap.  But the bigger issue was his lack of regard for me and my needs, and his lack of consideration.  He’s been known to leave me hanging.  In fact, he does so more often than not.  Sometimes he’s apologetic, and sometimes he’s not.  I always forgive him anyway.

My friends tell me that the beginnings of a relationship should not be this difficult or complicated.  In the beginning, a man should pretty much be on his best behavior.  The beginning is as good as it gets.  I don’t know whether or not that is true.  In my experience, the beginnings always suck.  I’m at my most insecure, and they are not bothering to impress.  Because my nature is forgiving, I often learn more and get deeper into a man’s psyche by wading through the crap that presents itself upfront.

I don’t do simple.  I don’t enjoy typical relationships, and I grow bored when everything is going well.  I’ve only experienced it a few times, but I did not enjoy it.  I begin to feel too much pressure, and I wait for things to go wrong.  If they don’t, I scram.  When they do, I feel justified.  With The Colombian, pretty much everything has gone wrong…except when it hasn’t.

The good parts are very good.  In fact, they are some of the best I’ve had.  In forgiving him and discussing “what went wrong” each time he pisses me off, I have learned.  Every time.  I have learned more about what motivates him, and I have learned more about why I become so angry.  I’m unearthing layers of anger in myself I had forgotten were there.  I’m peeling back years of hurt and frustration, and letting go of it.

So no, I don’t want to give up on him, despite his being an asshole.  People come into our lives for a reason.  Perhaps our relationship won’t last, and perhaps it shouldn’t.  But I’m not leaving it empty-handed, when I leave.  I’ll be armed with knowledge, having experienced passion and fun and torture and heartache.  My view of my own pain becomes more objective as I grow older.  It doesn’t keep me from experiencing that pain, of course; but I am growing the ability to look at it from the outside in.

My closest friends are not fans of this relationship.  They’ve seen the pain, and they don’t like it.  They are all happy and well-adjusted in their relationships.  Their advice means little to me, for that reason.  Still others in my life, who have advised patience and perseverence, are the same ones who have broken down crying that they hate their own spouses.  (They get over it, of course.  They forgive.)  For me, forgiveness and effort is important.  That is where the learning comes from.  That is the reward, essentially, for loving in the first place.  If everything were easy, what would I be learning?  If he were always good to me, wouldn’t I just be waiting for disaster?

I probably won’t stop flying off the handle anytime soon.  And he won’t stop being an asshole, either.  But that doesn’t erase the love and loyalty that’s developing between us.   It doesn’t take away the fun, and it doesn’t take away the playfulness.  It just means lots of making up.  And that’s good for everyone.

The Advantages of Lonesuckiness

One of the great advantages of being alone, unattached, without social obligation, is having time to write.  To be honest, while loving The Colombian, I found little time for anything besides working, pet care, and loving the Colombian.

I’ve decided, this time, not to wallow in the sadness of being alone.  The winter approaches rapidly, my expenses are high–higher than my income–and I’m once again deeply dissatisfied with the setup of my career and my life.  But I won’t spend this winter crying, regretting what might have been.  I cannot afford it.  I have Katie now, and a good bitch needs the example of another bitch to show her how to bitch properly. 

I’ll learn to walk in the cold and dark.  (This has already begun.  Most of my days end at 5 pm.  The sun sets around 5 pm.  I never see it.)  I’ll learn to put on her little coat, and mine, and get our asses outside into the fresh air.  I’ll work on my house…for real, this time.  I’ll make myself dinner–because, let’s face it, I’m wasting away to nothing.  I’ve gone from “Skinny Mini,” to “Okay, you’re getting ridiculously thin.”  Just ask my mother.

I will find friends, and activity.  I will forget that The Colombian occupies the same small town, and I will try not to see him as he finds his own new friends and activity.  I can’t bear it.  I love him still, even though I ended what was between us.  I will forget the way he made me feel when we danced together.  I will put it right out of my mind.  I will not think of him, not at all.  And it will be true, because I just wrote it, right there.

One advantage of being alone is that I won’t have to use the five pack of triple-blade razors I bought a few weeks ago.  Whew!  Taking time to shave one’s legs in the shower is a waste of water and of time.  And that bottle of super-rich body moisturizer he bought me will last the entire, six-month winter now, as I’ll only have to use it in cracked skin emergencies, not to make myself more atractive.  I will not have to worry about the new wrinkles forming around my eyes and forehead, nor the deepening lines around my smile.  If I’m not dating a hot young Latino, no one will care how old I look.

And of course, our not taking that Caribbean vacation in December will leave me six whole days to create my ninth and tenth flavors of fudge, and to produce all ten batches, and of course to sample all ten batches.  What a relief!  I’ve also been saved from my first-ever bikini wax.  I could not be more thrilled.  Really.  Who wants to take a romantic, sun-drenched vacation to a gorgeous beach in the midst of winter?  I mean, come on.

I might even find some books to read this winter.  Last week, in bed, The Colombian pulled out a book he’d been enjoying.  I suddenly remembered something.  “Hey!  I like books too!”  I think I must have forgotten.  I had forgotten how joyful it is to go to bed with a book, surrounded by furry little bodies, and to read until my eyes literally will not stay open.  What a wonderful sleep it creates.  So thank you, Colombian, for that.

Spending the winter alone, I will get so much wonderful exercise as I shovel and tamp the snow in my driveway.  To be honest, I would have had the same joy had I been in a relationship.  Only now I can shovel while repeating my Stay-Warm Mantra, “I’m alone and I’m old! I’m alone and I’m old!”  Oh, and I can stop fantasizing about the future with children in it.  I can go back to focusing on furry kids instead, who are so much cheaper and easier than human babies.

While spending this quality time with myself, I can go back to having no clue what I want to do with my life.  All those fantasies about becoming a wife and an innkeeper might have been misplaced.  I’m really much better off when firmly entrenched in chaos and confusion.  It gets the creative juices flowing.  I can also focus some time on writing that erotica novel I’ve been pondering for years, instead of attempting to act it out.  So much less energy to sit in front of the computer….

I’m thankful, really.  I got to remember that I was human for a moment.  I think I’d forgotten that.  I’m human, and flawed, and scared, and not very good at relationships.  It’s much better for me to give up, to disallow someone to care for me.  It keeps me consistent.  It makes me who I am.  Alone and sucky.  It’s who I was meant to be.  And now I can get back to the business of just being Me.