Sundays

Today I bolted home from my weekend with B.  I hadn't seen him for two weeks, but instead of spending my Sunday afternoon with him, I rushed back to Greensboro.  I spent the whole ride home wondering why (and also feeling slightly guilty).  I didn't have to grocery shop.  I wasn't going back to do yoga.  All I've done is fix this blog, read, walk the dog, eat snacks, and feel sorry for myself.  WTF?!

Sundays make me mopey.  (Well, I make myself mopey).  But the point is that Sunday brings thoughts of the week ahead and leaving my honeymoon weekend time with B and having to go back to Greensboro and suck it up another week.  It's as if the dreams and possibilities born of Friday and Saturday freedom blow away with Sunday sadness on the horizon.

I wonder if I rush to Greensboro because it leaves less time for me to ruminate about having to come back to "reality" and forces me to get back to the grind.  I wonder if I rush because I'm afraid of my own happiness and fear it's going to be stripped from me (read: deep seated childhood shit).  Both scenarios leave little room for presence or living in love over fear.  It's fear that drives the rushing; and it's fear that leaves me thinking, "If I don't leave now I'm going to be more sad than I already am and I don't want to expose B to that.  I may as well go home so I can fix my thoughts on getting ready for next week."  But have my thoughts been fixed on next week?  No.  They've been fixed on eating my feelings, er, snacks.



And another, more vulnerable aspect: I'm afraid of B seeing me for who I really am sometimes...like when I'm about to cry over having to go home and am left with a black hole of longing in my chest; or when I'm to the point of pacing with madness in wanting us to live in the same city RIGHT NOW.  He's seen me in poor shape a time or two and shows incredible compassion and understanding when I need it most.  It's just...I don't want to rely on him so much while I feel so vulnerable because I'm also afraid that I'll become a Stage 5 Clinger (i.e. codependent).  On the other hand, I'm also afraid of him getting the full scope of my Single Girl Habits when we do end up in the same place.  You know...standing up in the kitchen eating cold spaghetti sauce out of the container, uncontrollable chocolate urges that cause cabinet ransacking/going to the closest store for candy, leaving dirty socks on the bathroom counter, really not caring if my pillow case has dog hair on it before I go to sleep, and maybe sometimes re-wearing the same workout shirt I had on yesterday because it doesn't really smell that bad and I'm just going to get a shower anyway.



But what the hell, we all fart under the covers at some point or other.

And now...Congratulations!  You've made it to the end of this post.  I'm tired of writing about mopey Sundays and self-analysis.  If, for shits and giggles, you want to get the full effect of my psychological wiring, please reread this piece from the top.  Repeat.  (Continue this process for at least two hours).  Then maybe read a funny book or watch a non-scary show.  Girls is a good choice.