My boyfriend, Bo, is gone on business. And I’m trying not to be a little bitch about it.
Not because I think he’s off drinking martinis or asking busty waitresses for extra olives. (Mostly because he hates olives.) But because we can’t communicate. No calls, no texting, no Skyping, or any other form of back-and-forth other than me thinking something and assuming he thought it first. (A real recipe for disaster.)
Because he’s off practicing bad assery, phones aren’t allowed. His boss doesn’t care about whiney girlfriends who miss their men. It cares about results and not having to put in cell towers where they don’t belong.
In the big scheme of things, it’s not that big of a deal. I can’t talk to him for a few weeks. Boo freaking hoo. But here, in the status quo, the silence seems … in slow motion. I haven’t checked my phone in hours. What’s texting and how do I make my fingers move that way? I can’t remember chicken nuggets; they’ve been off my radar weeks. What’s Bo’s real first name again?!
I’m losing touch with reality.
Eventually, this will be a funny story – when I look back on my blog (if I ever decide to start doing that) and laugh. Like the time Face Eagle read that note from my aunt. She wrote about her firstborn bumping his head and was “never going to forgive herself.” We all got chuckled and my aunt assured us she was definitely over it – that he might’ve needed a few more bonks as he aged.
The Eventual Past
Before entering the zone of no service, I told Bo I was sorry in advance. That, upon return, he’d hear multiple weeks’ worth of stories. That I’d be so full of dumb conversations they’d be spewing for hours. Like I ate bad meat, but with semi-colorful comments exploding from my mouth rather than almost-digested meals.
Instead of pointing out how awkward my analogies are, he said he couldn’t wait.
I’ll Tell Him:
How on a Monday at 9:15, the cat had already had two contained-to-the-litter-box issues. But must’ve instantly recovered on account of how long he batted around that plastic cup. And the weather is real Kansas-y. How I poured tea leaves directly into the pot of water, before the strainer had been put inside. That I had a real serious esophagus-ache. And it’s only day four of fourteen (or sixteen) … on account of me not getting to know how long he’s sans phone. Which is a little terrible.
How did folks even exist pre-phones? In middle school, waiting for someone to empty their answering machine was torture. How could they go on, for months at a time (I’m assuming) with no correspondence? Most of their mail probably got lost anyway. By falling off of horses or slipping through holes in wool carrier bags. Then again, they probs kept busy since everything was done by hand. Like laundry and feeding the cows with hand-chopped hay. But when washers start with buttons and beef is pre-packaged in stores we can drive to, things don’t seem to take as long.
I’ll Also Tell Him:
Pandora has played only good songs. I sat outside and read and got tan(ish) in two days. Just from semi-long walks. That I cleaned out my closet and color-coded my earrings. Finished half of Yes, Please! Amy Pohler’s book where she keeps reminding us how hard it is to write a book.* That I signed up for hunter’s safety and got new client(s), and have been working out all of the days.
How I shopped for and then found attire for our formal event. Then when I tried it on for Face Eagle to hem (I could be 12 inches taller and still wear the same size of dress; curse you tall, un-proportionately thin women!), Bald Eagle asked when I was getting married. Three times. Even though the dress isn’t white; when you have dementia, a fancy dress = wedding.
Among other things that’ve been checked off my list. An entire spew of accomplishments achieved.
When I tell Bo all of these things, he’ll listen. Laugh and tell me I’m the hugest of dorks. Or when especially tired, say I “can talk until he falls asleep.” But mostly it will be good to see him. To ask him millions of questions and hear the parts of answers he’s able to tell. And to see him. Then suffocate with my presence. To not let him out of my reach for days. To tell him he better have had the best of times. So much that it’s out of his system. Because he’s never doing it again.
Until the next time, when he definitely has to.
*Yes, please keep rubbing that in my face, Miss P.