Apologies are in order, first and foremost. First of all, to the two of you out there who actually check in on this blog: I'm sorry. Things have been crazy. Work has been crazy, family has been insane and even more lunatic, the personal life has risen to Sylvia Plath levels. For the lack of posting, I'm sorry.
Secondly, I apologize for the Carrie Bradshaw-esque tone of the impending post. It's going to happen, so just please bear with me.
I was just taking my dog outside in an ice storm and it hit me: the idea of stability. Stability in work, in relationships, in the day-to-day that makes us who we are. We grow accustomed to counting on those who count on us, sure - but how much of that should we really count on?
As I walked through the courtyard of my all-too-familiar apartment complex that I've grown accustomed to walking through over the past six years, I couldn't help but take baby-step after baby-step, measuring my footprints carefully to be sure I didn't slip in the ice. I was freezing my ass off, even while wearing two layers of tube socks - one layer of which extended all the way to my knees. All the while my dog, who is can apparently teach me more about life than I ever initially thought, forged her way through to pee. All she knew was the goal that lie ahead - peeing, no matter the cost. She didn't care that she hadn't seen frozen conditions like this in years, she didn't care that her tiny paws were completely frigid - she knew what needed to be done, our purpose for being outside, and she made it happen. All the while, I huddled with a glass of wine and cigarette in hand behind any structure that shielded be from the wind. All in all, I was impressed. Amused, nonetheless, but impressed.
All of this to say, I've been in an extremely cautious and dependent relationship for the past two years. He's depended on me for happiness, I've depended on him for fulfillment; the need to know that I myself was needed. As this relationship draws to a close and I wonder how to cautiously approach the conversation, all I can do is draw knowledge from a tiny dog. Don't shield yourself from the wind, clutching onto your cigarette and glass of wine, hiding from the situation. Do what needs to be done. In other words, piss or get off the pot.
And with that, I apologize once again for the Carrie Bradshaw-ness of this post and promise much more entertaining material in the near future. Namely, how I came to have an autistic boyfriend, how my friend and I fell in love with four magicians, and the ridiculousness that's encompassed the past two months.