Binge Thinking *

In which our Hero thinks himself up one of those chocolate donuts, you know, the one with the sprinkles

A woman walks into a bar and says to the bartender, “I’d like an entendre, please. Actually, make it a double.”

So he gave it to her.

Nocturne asked me if I’d been drinking this weekend. “Not today,” I answered. Because I didn’t drink today. Or yesterday. But I went out drinking on Friday and came home engooed. Now, granted, I got home by about 6, but it was wild and crazy. An oreo McFlurry may have been had. And I have an overpriced tin of overpriced Genmaicha. And the night was young.

Okay, I can’t even spin it for effect. Went out for a drink with Hollywood after work, and we toasted our renewals and then I cleverly a) dipped my cuff in the sour cream of our nachos and b) did not notice till I’d anointed the side of my pants and part of my coat with white goo. And then I came home and Willow and family came by to visit and I had a half ounce of Limoncello for taste, a glass of Beaujolais, and to top it all off, my dad dug out the bottle of Sortelege I’d forgotten about so I had a little bit of maple syrup infused whiskey and mmm that stuff is still good.

But adding it up, that’s about 3 drinks in 6 hours which leaves me at sober. But Willow watched a movie with me, and that kept me from disappearing morosely into my own navel.

Here’s one of the things that women like about me, I’m the strong silent type. I’m calm and collected and generally unflappable. My inner monologue may be going nuts, as my entries sometimes reveal, but in general I’m high-functioning in just about any crisis. And it makes them feel reassured and safe and gives them a little bit of a shelter to gather themselves.

Here’s one of the things that women hate about me, I’m the strong silent type. When stuff goes down, I don’t show the self-doubt or the anxiety or the stress or the emotion, and it makes them question my feelings or how much I care. I would have (and did) think that simply caring is enough, but no, it turns out that just like with my math homework, sometimes showing your work gets you a better mark than just giving the answer.

I’ve tried to learn from that over the years, and tried to think of ways to express my feelings as I’ve dated. Except I’m not sure there’s a more unnatural way to do it than to be thinking about how to express yourself, and yet the anxiety from getting complaints makes me still try to find ways to do it. Because I want Nocturne to know I’m crazy about her, and I want her to realize how much I think about her, and I don’t know what to do to say that sometimes.

The disruption of her visit is one of these situations where I’m hoist by my strong, silent petard. The hard-to-breathe feeling (does punched in the stomach resonate for you, Gentle Reader?) of her sudden departurenot-arrival made it hard to talk about things anyway, and her upset makes me want to just be loving and soothing and remind her that this is just a speed-bump on “The Plan.” Because she’s upset, I worry that my sadness might come across as critical, and I’m disappointed at the situation, and not at all with her. That’s why I keep emphasizing that I’d choose the same way she has, and I’d have made her go there if she’d tried to come here.

And I remind myself that she’s where she needs to be so that *I* don’t sulk or whine. Or cry. And I remind myself that this is just a speed-bump on “The Plan,” and I resolutely ignore the voice that’s been saying, “If everything had gone right, she’d be here right now. You’d be taking her out right now. You’d be sitting together right now.” Sure, it could have been that way, but it isn’t, and it isn’t anybody’s fault, and there isn’t any planning that could have avoided this.

It isn’t the way we planned, and so screw it. We’ll build a new plan. And Nocturne will learn a little bit more about how stuck with me she is. And we’ll be together. If not today, then tomorrow. And if not tomorrow, then thursday. And if not Thursday then I don’t know when, but we’ll figure it out.

So I just need her to know that. To know that I’m disappointed that she can’t come here yet. And to know that I’m still excitedly looking forward to the point where we do get to be together.

I’ll figure out how to tell her.

Yeah, she hates the name I gave my car.

*Edit*

I teased Nocturne for not having remembered reading the name I gave the car. And now that you’re asking too, Gentle Reader, I guess I owe her an apology. (laugh)

As for the name, I’ve been influenced by reading the Culture series by Iain Banks. Thus, my car is named: A Confluence of Grudging Pragmatism.

Pragma, for short.