as i am my witness

I said goodbye to my beloved this morning. She is on her way to New York City, where she's presenting at a humanities conference at Columbia University. So I'm flying solo for a few days, which is something I simultaneously look forward to and loathe.

Admittedly, I have a tendency to sequester myself when S. is gone...I go to Blockbuster, get six or eight DVD's and then proceed to sit on the couch with my blankie, kleenex (there's always a weeper in there somewhere), a vat'o'tea (which sometimes morphs into a smaller vat'o'single malt as the day wears on) and all the necessary gizmos to carry me well into the evening...and I guess I kinda wait. For her to get home. For my ballast to reappear.

I never fancied myself one of those who can't be without his/her significant other. Those couples that I know who can't seem to do anything without the other ("oh, I can't possibly go to that restaurant, _____ made me promise I would go with her" or "yeah I'd like to check out that show but ______ is waiting for me at home and s/he'd kill me if I went out without him/her...") -- such codependent drivel makes me all pukey. I may be married, but part of the deal was that I would never relinquish my status as an Independent Agent (not in a polyamorous way but in a I don't need you to accompany me way). I come and go as I please. I have no problem doing things alone. Of course I love doing things with my love, but I won't turn down an opportunity to play simply because she doesn't want to. My wife is more of a homebody than I am, and I accept this fact. I love it, to tell you the truth. No matter what, I always know that S. is waiting for me at the home we have created together, and that's priceless. She's not pining away--she's where she wants to be. As am I. And it does not reflect on how I feel about her. It's just the way things are, and it works.

Some of this is a hold over from my days as a fancy free baby dyke let loose in a mountain town well over a decade ago. I was, as the old adgae goes, like a kid in a candy store. I had no idea what I was doing, and relationship chaos reigned, but that in itself was a comfortable place for me so I took it all in stride. I met my wife one year into my "escapades." She was, ostensibly, straight, but "looked" like a lesbian. I wondered, when we first spied one another across a crowded room at a beginning-of-the-year academic party, if she thought I was hot. Yes, my fragile ego was a little too big for its britches (then). Soon enough (actually about a year later) this ego would be deflated by myriad attempts to get into S.'s pants. I'd never worked so hard at seduction in my life. Ah, but look at us now. A decade later and I never thought it could be this good.

This is all just a precursor to saying that one of the other things I do when S. is gone is eat poorly. It's ironic, really, because for the most part, S. couldn't care less what I ate, so long as I didn't turn into SuperBitch once I was finished, which is all too often the case. Kind of like those times when you mack on an entire box of Hurl Scout cookies and then look at your partner and say "Now what did you let me do THAT for?" One of the ugliest fights S. and I ever had (about 7 years ago) followed my ingestion of a massive pile of sausage gravy and biscuits. I wanted to take a walk. S. wanted to go home and nap. The rest is history that will never be repeated.

But on my way to work this morning, I stopped by Whole Paycheck with the intent of picking up something for lunch. $40 later I had the following: one mini french boule; 1/2 lb of smoked trout spread; 1/2 pound roasted beets with apricots; mini-caesar salad; phytocillin (a tincture I use when I'm feeling puny like I am today); and two Amy's frozen mac'n'soy cheezes, because they were on sale. And I wanted comfort food. Yeah, like trout and beets. And bread. *sigh* Oh wait! I also bought a grapefruit!

Some might see this and say "well, it ain't McDonald's, so what are you whining about?" Well, smart ass, I might reply, I don't eat McDonald's. I don't eat fast food. Never really have. Makes me feel like shit. No, this excess poundage, it's all beer, tortilla chips, avocado, and occasional smears of trout spread. And rice noodles. And shrimp with snow peas (deemed "on the lighter side" of the menu). Oh and peanut butter. And wine flights. Last month's run in with some damn fine onion rings. I don't eat a ton of sweets, perhaps a couple of cookies here and there and I can't resist a pie (okay, or brownies), but really, I'm the savory toothed one in the family. I get that from my mom, who will choose spinach and cheese ANYTHING over cinnamon sugar blahty blah every time. (Damn this boule is good.)

I'm meandering here, and I suppose that's alright for a Friday. I just wanted to remind myself--by saying it--that S. being gone is not a license to eat like no one is watching. It's not freedom from all those moments of hiding in the kitchen. I am accountable only to myself at times like these, and for a long time I wasn't enough. I always lost the battle because I set myself up to fail...and maybe I've done it again, albeit in lesser form, by purchasing the aforementioned items. But I'm gonna really really try to resist bringing things into the house that will lead to my beating the holy hell out of myself for the duration of S.'s time away. I will allow myself one weekend (food) indulgence, and whenever I think of baking a pan of brownies and eating them all myself because No One Will Know, I will tell myself You Will Know. And that road you start down when You Know is very very rocky and very very dangerous. So give yourself a break already. Savor that grapefruit and go walk the dog. Again.