Jan
18

Good News and No News.

Good news first: my clotting tests came back normal. Dr. Doctor is not sure what happened, her best guess being that some sort of “dilutant” accidentally made it’s way into my first blood sample.
On the message, Dr. Doctor invited me to call her with questions, and chirpily asserted that she’d “see me in a month or two.”
Somehow I doubt that.

Denial, as they say, is not merely a river in Egypt. It is also a handful of pleasant dinners, energetic Martin Luther King Day sex, and a Wednesday morning trip to SuperTarget.

Since our explosive Saturday night conversation, the Nearly and I have clarified the following points:
1. I do not want to end our relationship.
2. The Nearly does not want to end our relationship.
3. We cannot possibly continue our relationship under present conditions.
After agreeing upon the above, we have proceeded to avoid any discussion of What Will Become of Us. We have laughed, washed dishes side by side, gone out for breakfast, and referred vaguely to the future as if it were a foregone conclusion. We have alluded to the need for decisions, compromise, and conversation—all presumably to take place sooner rather than later.
I should probably apologize for the lack of details—while I have virtually no concept of a boundary between “public” and “private,” as evidenced by the number of strangers who have read about my vagina on the Internet, the Nearly takes few people into his confidence. He was not thrilled when I started this blog, and I try very hard to maintain his privacy here. I will say that no one has cheated on anyone. No one has revealed a secret identity or criminal record or weakness for cocaine. What has happened is that the Nearly–in his desire to keep me happy–misled me about rather key changes in his plans for his life. Changes that make his plans starkly incompatible with my own.

I did not go to work today. Instead I woke up, got dressed, and Dinah and I hit the road. I have gone to the same Target store since I was three years old—it was the first Target ever built, and it recently underwent the transformation from regular Target to SuperTarget. I think they wanted to make the flagship store especially lovely, and it is quite a sight to behold.
Target soothes me like nothing else–I got myself a cup of overpriced coffee from the Starbuck’s inside, put my handbag in my cart, and spent the next hour and a half meandering through the aisles, looking at lip gloss and sponges, shoe trees, housepants, and nutritional supplements. I perused the pasta and the produce, and considered buying a set of sheets made from bamboo. I purchased a pair of earrings, some dish soap, and a birthday card for my nearly mother-in-law. I bought ingredients to make crab-corn chowder. I smiled at the salespeople, and they smiled back at me. I had my own Holly Golightly moment there in the almost deserted superstore.

This evening I am looking forward to dancing in the kitchen while I cook and opening a fresh bottle of wine. Maybe I will take a bath. Perhaps I will even shave my legs.
I don’t know what will happen after the Nearly and I talk this coming weekend, but I am going to enjoy myself until then. The rejection letter I received this morning isn’t helping, but I’m adding that to the list of things I’ll think about tomorrow.
Fiddle-Dee-Dee.

Thank you all for your comments and email—really, whatever did I do before this blog?
A few answers to a few questions I received:
1. Re: Metformin: I think the Metformin may have been manageable had the marital drama of the evening not unfolded, resulting in a truly execrable crying-induced migraine. And, of course, had I not become convinced that my sleepiness was a sign of imminent death from Lactic Acidosis. I plan to try Metformin again at some point when things have settled down—provided I receive assurances that the fatigue was a normal side effect.
2. Re: Marriage: The Nearly and I are unmarried by mutual agreement, not because he is “not the marrying kind” or because he whinnies with fear at the phrase “lawfully wedded wife.” I know a little girl is supposed to dream of her wedding day, but I never did—I dreamt of the day my first book would be published. I started calling the Nearly “The Nearly Fiance” as a joke—aimed at our families, who brush aside our living in sin together–and our stated commitment to spending the rest of our lives that way–in favor of the question of when we will print up invitations and make it legal. The answer remains the same: Someday. Right now cleaning that icky bit between the bathtub and the wall is a higher priority.

By Alexa | Posted in Ceci N'est Pas Une Ecrivaine |