One of my favourite modern short-lived sitcoms is 'Don't Trust the B*tch in Apt. 23.' There is an episode arc about the rota. And I think about it a lot. 'Why do you think I date six guys at a time? For exactly this reason. One gets annoying, another one slips right in. It's how Pat Riley ran the Knicks, it's how I run my sex life.'
1) Myself
2) My littles (including the cats)
3) Life and Work Admin
4) Marjorie, the House
5) My framily (since my parents are dead, obviously this means friends and extended family are blended together for a deeper bond)
6) Romantic interests
It's a constant shuffle and I am really having to work to keep myself in the top 3. Which is the opposite of how it should be I am told.
This is out of sync...it may be time to alter categories, but where to start? I miss romance (I also being in love with a other person, but that is not the same thing). But I also need my space. Lots of space.
I miss those long nights that turn into early mornings. But I also want to be at home in bed or at the very least in my comfies - by 2145/2200. This makes it tricky, when you know you very seldom want to be the last out of the nightclub (and ironically had to be dragged IN). It's also why you used to attend the rehearsals.
But I don't miss being criticized and ridiculed for how I turn up, what I do, how I chop vegetables. And whilst I know intellectually that not every romantic endeavour I embark on will result in a diminishment, it is difficult to truly believe not all romantic endeavours will have this component.
More and more, if someone feel compelled to tell me 'I'm not a bad man,' I'm going to wonder what it is they've done that makes them feel they need the caveat. But clearly not enough yet to unbreak the patterning. I can see the patterning, clearly. I'm getting better at exiting with greater speed but how long to just not sit through the film? To watch the trailer and and realize it is not my kind of film?
Of course, it's been that kind of month. When not desperately wondering what the heck is going on in the mind of my youngest, I'm packing and repacking for an upcoming holiday. Going over the details again, I discover there is more space booked than we need (not on airplanes, mercifully). I've gone over these details at 7 times but never caught this particular one. I apparently forgot my parents were dead sometime in December and booked accommodation for them too. Which is funny, because they don't even need their own seats! They just slip right into a carryon.
So now, after a snot cry and a panic attack, well...its all systems to moving on, with grace really not attractive sports sandals.
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