The Opposite of IT

This morning I was frantically trying to find the right necklace to wear with my black dress. I gave up, grabbed the thing that was closest to me.  It turned out to be the perfect thing.  

Why am I writing about this?

So A is back. He managed to keep out for a week. First a random email late in the afternoon about some lecture he thought I would want to listen to.  Then an email an hour later. Then a phone call soon after that.  I admit that I am amused.  And unsurprised. I understand this all very clearly in some ways and then I don't understand it at all.  I don't feel like talking at all.

It makes me wonder what he's thinking. I don't think he's thinking. And I am tired.

My evening with M went well and then not well.  He and I are like a bad romantic comedy -- the same peccadilloes, the same likes, the same brittleness, the same awkwardness, the same it's-never-going-to-happen-between-usness.  And that may not be a bad thing.  There is something that repels us from one another.  What is it?  It is the opposite of IT.

Aida was wonderful. More and more I love the opera.  In the midst of my misery last spring, I found the energy to get myself to Lincoln Center. I would be happy just to be able to watch the chandelier cables retracting.  I would be happy to listen to that Aida song over and over again.  

In my rush to leave this morning, I left my book at home.  All day, I had to fight the urge to go to a bookstore and find something.  I missed the weight of a book in my hand.  

Going to see my shrink in a few days.  It's a been a long time.  I keep thinking I can quit her now. But really, that is just hubris. She is my insurance policy. One of these days, I will be fighting tears in the subway again.  I need to have someone on retainer when those days come because really, I realize that I am incapable of full disclosure with anyone.  Even with my shrink I do not say everything.  But it's close enough.