Nights and Days

Ah, the lap of luxury. Here I am, in Halifax, tucked into bed. Just come up from drinking tea in front of the fire, watching TV and knitting, while Steve laughed his big laugh and Shelley dozed. This after a very delicious seafood risotto and, rolling back, an afternoon tucked into this very same bed, but with Shelley and her laptop, scheming and browsing the internet till the laptop lost its charge. This after a yummy bento box lunch, after being picked up at the airport.

Two nights ago, I had a therapy appointment. It was a strange one, since there wasn't much to talk about except the breakup. And though I'm taking that harder than I thought I would, I don't need to be therapized about it. Time and the regular application of stout will work just as well, I think. I won't stop going to therapy altogether, since I've still got the same shit to work through, but it's impossible to deal with underlying emotional faultlines during a mudslide. The appointment ended up being not very useful, but nice. She made good suggestions and said the right things. She also checked that I was keeping myself duly occupied during the evenings. Which are my saddest times.

I assured her I was going to be well taken care of.

Last night was fun. I picked Jennifer up at her house and we met Liz at the Aloha. The music kicked my ass in the very best way, I got one more thing out of my house by giving Liz back her museum registration textbook (long story), and it was great to laugh and spend time with two women who also kick my ass in the very best way. Especially so at the Aloha, which can feel like a bit of a boys' club.

I may have to start watching it on the regular application of stout, however, because when I got home, I didn't do a few things that I promised myself I would get done, thinking "Feh, I'll have lots of time to do that in the morning. What time to I need to get up? Oh, 7:30 will be lots of time." To have a shower, eat breakfast, write Freya's minders a note, put out the cat food, finish packing and tidy a few things up? Not hardly enough time, never mind lots.

The plane ride was a study in contrasts. The packing I finally finished was into a small green 70s-era suitcase. That and my laptop bag were what I brought, both small enough for carry on. Getting onto the plane, the flight attendant checked my boarding pass, looked me over, smiled, and said, in a lovely, lilting Italian accent, "Beautiful suitcase." Compliment me, I'll wave my hand at you dismissively. Compliment my luggage, I'll blush to the tips of my toes in delight.

I found my seat, put said suitcase in the overhead compartment, taking up all the room left over from the in-flight magazines, and started sorting myself out, waiting for the person sitting in the window seat beside me to show up. He did, his strides down the aisle purposeful, a large bag in each hand. He stopped short, looked crankily at the overhead compartment above our row.

"Uh. What's that?" An acid pause before spitting out that.

What I did say? “That is my carry on.” Pointing. “That is not mine.”

What I should have said? “That, jackass, is my beautiful suitcase.”