For a few weeks now, she's called me up every day with a "Did you get served?" It's become our little running gag.
It's like being in the waiting room, patiently sitting, staring at the uninspired, mass-produced painting featuring a still life of flowers. You hear everyone's name called, even the guy who came in an hour after you, and you wonder if you were forgotten about. Someone took a snapshot and we're all just walking around in it but we never change scenes or costumes and the muzak is stuck on repeat.
But now, behold, the season of inclement weather is upon us! And I don't just mean Tropical Storm Alberto.
Last night the storm come through violently. This morning, however, the weather cleared, the sky was beautiful, and with the breeze a knock came to the door. We hardly take this lightly, but allow me to be the first to give myself an irreverent "Bwaha! You got served!" Because she will too. That's how we get through all this. It's a big deal but... geez, man, get on with it. I talk to myself a lot don't I?
I'm actually not sure what I'm supposed to do next. Originally, our plan was that we would do the whole thing ourselves to save from being raped by lawyer costs. Ages ago, I downloaded all the requisite forms and put them in a folder affectionately titled "Blech." But I'm no lawyer. Though I am a professional procrastinator. "Can't today, we'll do it tomorrow, we'll do it next week, we'll do it next month..." So she decided to get an attorney. I can hardly blame her and really I'm half glad about it. I'll be representing myself because frankly I can't afford anything else.
If you haven't caught on, the only real reason I don't actively seek any kind of companionship is, well, I'm still married. It's been a year and a half now and it's a legality pure and simple. We've taken off our rings, come to our conclusions, but between her and I, it won't be okay until it's done with.
I can't speak for anyone else, but I think I may have really messed myself up in the bedroom sense. My libido is now major league manic depressive. I fear for the poor souls who I may eventually encounter in the wrong stage of that erratic cycle.
This holding pattern effectively prevents me from wanting to make any contact in the just to be friends sense with anyone who presents themself as gay. I have a sense that I'm being watched, like a criminal on the loose. If I even look at someone with those inadvertent, sideways staring eyes, I may as well put the handcuffs on. I feel like I have to explain over and over that I don't want to just sleep with everyone I come in contact with. My own homophobic hell stemming from a lock that I've assigned in order to not step on any toes. Of course, no one is really asking but still...guilty, guilty, guilty.
I have a habit of daydreaming. A lot. I always have. I crush hard and fast, but if anything ever actualized from those crushes I think my brain might hemorrhage.
I still end up a nervous catastrophe whenever I indulge myself in feeling attracted to members of the same gender. Like with Cute Subway Guy who I still get uncomfortably hot under the collar about whenever he makes my sandwich. Last night, Dreamy Apple Store Guy was replacing my power chord and I just wanted to stick my finger in a socket when I was done to get rid of the feeling. And Lordy, I can't even get into the dreams I have about certain...people I've never met.
So I be sure to keep at a safe distance. Although I can board up the windows all I like, storms have a tendency to take unpredictable paths.