Wading in the Velvet Sea

Waking

This isn’t terribly different in a few ways. In fact, I almost never wake up with someone in bed with me. She tends to wake up well before me on a daily basis. The big difference now? I’m waking up fully spooning with my body pillow. It’s lodged most of its time in this apartment sitting atop one of my closets, bunched up, Quasimodo-like, just waiting to one again be enveloped within my loving (and now much largely, damn, this running really helps) arms. It doesn’t wake up in the middle of the night if I have to go to the bathroom, it doesn’t come in three times a morning wondering when in the hell I plan on actually getting up for work, and it never rolls its eyes at the daily drool on my pillow. I should be popping the question to the body pillow around Thanksgiving.

Messaging

After getting to work, and getting my daily coffee fix, I’m busy at work, either starting/finishing an assignment or editing the blog I’ve written the night before for posting. Usually, during one of these critical times, I’ll get 57 IMs from The Girl, which I have to answer lest I get in trouble. Never actually happens when I have some downtime, and thanks to the wonders of instant messaging, I can’t never tell if she’s really OK with me having to go or if she’s faking it. When will IM establish useful HTML tags, such as or ? And now that she’s in Italy…ctually, this still happens. Feels like she’s just down the street, not 4500 miles away. Her timing is impeccable. But like “Lost” has taught us, nothing happens by coincidence. Which means, in all likelihood, The Girl’s hired two Portuguese guys to sit on one of the poles and monitor my activity.

Partying

Was a weird thing to realize I once again could do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. Now that I’m shackled in my current scenario, but I think of two, not one, when it comes to plans. Just part of the deal, and it’s one I accept and embrace. But I’m so used to it that it took me a bit to realize I only have a committee of one to confer with to make plans. I mean, I still have no life, and have very done little since she left, but it’s good to know there’s no middle man should an opportunity, you know, arise.

Returning

So, if I’m not going out, I’m coming home, but even that’s different. Because I have nothing really to return to. Oh sure, there’s DVR and DVD and PS2 and all that good stuff, but those are things, and those things usually aren’t waiting for me to show up. It’s this whole annoying things non-sentient entities do, this “lack of mental faculties, or indeed awareness in any form” thing. My daily return consisted of going to the gym during my lunch break before she left; nowaways, I go after work, because the only real problem in getting home at 8 versus 6:30 lies in my ability to stave off hunger longer enough to cook dinner ninety minutes later. In general, I’m here less if I can help it, because the apartment’s huge to begun with when there’s two of us, and it’s unbearable big in her absence.

Eating

We nearly broke up moving in together. Not in that cute, anecdotal “ha, wow, I’m gonna say we almost broke up to illustrate how bad the process was, but really, we weren’t near that place” way. Like, another day of hard labor and overall moving issues, and one of us might have thrown a punch. If I’d throw it, well, I’d be in jail, and if she’d thrown it, I’d probably be in traction, cuz the girl has mad boxing skillz. (Guys, if you’re girl wants to get some exercise, advise her to get into yoga. You’ll feel a whole lot better about your physical safety when things get heated. Would you rather have her throw a roundhouse, or get into the Flying Lotus pose? Exactly.)

But after that, the first real issue arose, for some reason, in the supermarket. Each time came within three items of turning into a battle straight out of “Mortal Kombat”. No idea why. So I just finally started giving her cash after we made a list in the apartment and sent her off. And inevitably, she’s go off the list, and get things that were “healthy” and provided “culinary variety”. Lame. Anyways, now I’ve reboiled shopping to its essence: three days after she left, I got $40 in frozen pizza, chicken nuggets, and mac and cheese. My fridge and cabinets are still fairly well stacked. The big difference now is that she’s got my hooked on turkey burgers. Problem is, I forgot to ask her exactly what combo of spices and sauces she uses to make these so damn good. So each iteration has been an experiment for yours truly: through this empirical process I should have the proper mix by the end of June. By which point she’ll be back and probably back to making me eat salad. Again, lame.

Cleaning

I didn’t know The Girl has an arch enemy before she left. But now I do. Because it’s now my arch enemy: every horizontal surface in this apartment. Good gracious. They might look like linoleum, wood, and porcelain, but each serves the same function: to suck up dirt, grime, hair, and unknown sticky substances like black holes for crap. The Girl must wipe these things down twice daily, because I’ve never noticed just how quickly and completely these f#ckers get grody. I’ve tried to be good, and use the sani wipes she uses and all, but those are now gone, and I don’t have “sani wipes” on my $40 list, so let’s hope Pledge works in the bathroom as well as it does on my coffee table.

Watching

As if I needed any clearer proof that yours truly is fundamentally different: last Wednesday, during a break early in the Sox/Yanks game, I go to the DVR list to delete her 532 different design shows that she can’t watch in her absence, and I’m deleting, deleting, deleting…hrm, “Designed to Sell”…they’re moving to Mexico and need to sell, says the guide…hrm, well, this won’t take too long….and damnit if I didn’t watch the whole thing (fast-forwarding through the commercials, but still). Just snip off my genitals; clearly I’m not worthy to possess them.

Drinking

Drinking alone is a big no no. That much is obvious. The Girl and I love us some wine, and polish off our fair share. Sometimes, an extremely faire share. But, going out and buying a bottle of white wine, only to have it opened for a party of one…no way. No can do. That’s just not right. Thank God for my imaginary friend Leonard, who loves himself some Bacardi. Without him, I’d have a lot of sober nights.

Rocking

This I’m still doing on a nightly basis, and doing it harder than ever. I rocked his world, her world, and your world. You might not even be aware of how much I’m rocking you every night. But if you’ve ever felt a slight chill up your spine, if you’ve ever suddenly woken up in the middle of the night, or if you’ve pulled a Charlie Horse…that was me rocking you. Jut clearing that up. The Girl leaving has changing many things, but not this. Can’t…stop…can’t stop the rock.

Spraying

Let’s just say Glade’s use has been reduced from “every time” to “a case by case basis evaluated carefully by management”, and move on.

Sleeping

I still don’t have to worry about having to completely unmake the bed in order to get in, but nowadays this is due to me having not bothered to make the bed that morning. I know I’m getting in it again later that day. It’s pretty much a guarentee. The couch is too small for me to sleep on and I just can’t pass out on the futon like I used to be able to do. Call it “maturity”, but the bed’s about it for me when I need a night’s sleep. Sadly, living with a girl means the daily making and unmaking a bed is only slight less complex and involved than solving The Davinci Code. Multiple layers of sheets, a ridonkulous number of pillows that merely serve decorative purposes, and a headboard that defies all attempts to tuck in anything along the top of the bed conspire to make making the bed simply not worth my pseudo-bachelor days. It’s rumpled, it’s lived in, it has the body pillow defining the space where I sleep and she should be.

It’s far from perfect, but it’s how it is for now. But not forever, so like everything above, I can live with it for a bit longer.