More and more often, it seemed that I couldn’t truly react to a moment until I had time to really think about it. I wanted to pause people in mid-situation to say Hey, I’m just going to go back to my office and review the tape of this conversation. I’ll get back to you after I fully analyze it.
And so I retold the same story to myself over and over again on the six hour flight back to Portland from Chicago, trying to decide what it meant.
We spent most of our time in bed, but we were barely having sex. I was still wildly attracted to Patrick and of course I wanted to be all over him. But there was just so much to talk about and well, that was what we did. Naturally there were rules. We never discussed my past life in Chicago, not even the years we had in common. We never, ever mentioned the H-word husband. Conversation was limited our lives before we met (but never our childhoods) and the year since I had moved to Portland.
I realized that we were both secretly aspiring shut-ins. My suitcase of clothes remained untouched. We had food and booze delivered. We must have slept, but I couldn’t remember it. Passing days without really seeing the sun and the moon fucked with my entire sense of time and routine.
Maybe I was getting sensitive from lack of sleep or sunshine. But it just seemed like all of a sudden he couldn’t stop giving me a hard time. Making fun of my taste in music (girly and twee), my tattoos (also girly and twee), and my longtime veganism (surprise! also girly and twee). Even worse, he wouldn’t stop calling me Angie. I hated it, despite his assertion that it was really more of an affectionate pet name. After laughing all of this off over and over again, I finally hit a breaking point. You know, saying something nice to me wouldn’t be some sort of defeat. When you really think about it, it would be a victory because you would make me feel good. And then I would want to be even nicer to you. Continue reading