Got a Room

I am living through the most stressful November of my life. I remember that, for a number of years it used to be Spring, especially April and May, when Matt’s social skills plummeted, friends and family got a bit demanding, and my pets died.

But this November is the mother of all hair-pulling and Tylenol-popping months. I keep waking up in the middle of the night, and immediately roll over to check the calender. Not over yet. Inevitably, as daylight creeps in, I try to play dead, which requires determination and stamina with Jules around. He likes boobs.

After this school thing had been settled, I was hoping that we would settle down as well. As a matter of fact, we nave been trying to get back in the grove, but for some reason, it seems, that we can’t find one grove that fits all. Or maybe we have forgotten what a groove feels like.

We are stumbling around in some odd syncopated pattern that makes Ragtime sound like a Waltz. One of us always has a headache, feels unappreciated or is going bald while the other feels it’s time for Tequila. Like an odd couple tripping each other with their wobbly canes, the two of us are entangled in a strange off-beat Tango. And Fridays are the worst.

Six o’ clock rolls around and I know we are off to our dance macabre once again. Whatever I do in those doomed hours that usher in the weekend: smile, not smile, listen or ignore, offer drinks, or get drunk, unfailingly we hit the wrong key and it’s downhill from there.

So, last weekend I skipped the dance and instead took off at five to six to return only when the chamber maid breathed heavily into my ear indicating that it was time to vacate the bed. Yes, I rented a bed for myself, free from spiteful snoring and groping critters. For a full 39 hours (yes, I counted) my life belonged just to me. Time was mine, and silence reigned. It was heaven.

I just might try that again some time.