Where have I been all this time? (This is more a question posed to myself, and not you, dear reader).
Answer: 1)A combination of Cuba and the couch. 2)Elbow-deep in a bag of Doritos one minute, on a quest for another gallon of organic milk the next. 3)In an ever-fluxing headspace: from anxiety and indifference to optimism and utter contentment. I have been incredibly lazy, but my doctor recently erradicated my guilt by allowing me to blame it on "progesterone". Don't force exercise for the next little while? Okay.
This growing a human business can really suck the life right out of you. A bit of a boost yesterday though, hearing the heartbeat for the first time. A sweet little fluttering of poppyseed-sized valves and chambers, having begun a lifetime of tireless work.
Last night, Scott and I went out for dinner. It was a drizzly evening and I was in the mood for a cozy neighbourhood pub (and, let's face it, something deep-fried). We sat down at a table that happened to be beside a younger couple who were dressed to impress and sharing the banquette seat so they could be closer to each other. There was a little bit of bickering and a lot of wine. I decided they were newly dating and ordered a rootbeer.
A few minutes later an older couple sat down on the other side of us. Retired. Both ordered a glass of red wine and while the 20-somethings swapped bites of an apple pie with melted cheese on top (there's a MOD if I've ever heard of one, all you ex-servers out there), the older man and woman clutched the stems of their glasses and stared blankly at molecules of air that occupied space a little to the left of each other's heads.
How poignant the juxtaposition of a new romance and one that is seasoned enough to endure an extended period of unawkward silence. These were two people who could have just as easily convinced me that they were both on the verge of a wine-induced coma, separate but together.
And then there was Scott and I, right in the middle, not noticing our own silence as we finished each other's meals and eavesdropped on our neighbours. Clearly one side proved more interesting.
On a final and fittingly unrelated note, I love my dear cat and have decided she deserves some blog publicity. The only time I feel otherwise towards her (although at 2pm I can't help but find it slightly endearing) is at 5am when there is a black purring mess kneading my ribcage and walking in circles around my pillow. She seeks out my hands and in my state of half-sleep I am treated to the familiar wet-nosed head-butting; a plea for some scratching at the most difficult hour of the day. If I'm lying on my back she inevitably finds comfort in Sphinx pose, the tips of her paws poised on my trachea. She does, afterall, fancy herself a calculating and fearsome jungle cat.
Why do we allow her to sleep in our room, you ask? Well, for one, I do love a warm animal body next to me. But most importantly, if we close our door, the 5am wake-up call is much more disturbing. It conjures images of the other side of the bedroom door splintered into kindling and claws ground down to the quick.
Thank you for reading, I now continue my clumsy and fog-headed journey through the day and will eat the chocolate cookie sitting quietly in a brown paper bag on my desk.