Being self-sufficient works out rather well. I’ve decided that the average Indian husband is a pretty sorry creature- unexciting, uninspiring, untutored. On an unrelated note while it doesn’t bring you happiness it (the blue one) sure as hell cushions your sorrow.
So what are the big plans for the day? We will start by going someplace where we usually do, be astonished that an old dear-best-friend type could be that poisonous about current dear-best-friend type, drink lots, laugh at each other (usually we gang up, him & I on just about everybody), talk about everything that needs to be aired out and bring out all that doesn’t also while we’re at it and top it off with a bout of warm-fuzzy-feeling time where everybody loves everybody to pieces. Ugh. It sounds so blasé in words but it’s the invariable pattern. And it can be quite good fun. Though this is what I’m not willing to trade for anybody/thing/place. I’ve had them (the more permanent ones, not my flavours of the month who usually are forgotten after the stipulated time) since forever and though this wearisome pattern hasn’t really changed since we were some 15 years of age, I think the day I’m tired of them I will be tired of my life. The cement that holds the Parcheesi in place is scattered all over. Like the times when I’ve had nothing to do with myself but curl into C’s chest and laugh at each other’s whininess till we’ve cleaved it all away and just left relatively free.
I don’t think I’m being very honest here. I’m generally too seasoned a liar for much to seem amiss but this blog is losing its sense of purpose. It needs to be destroyed.
They’ve all gone back for a bit and I’m miserable about it. Too melodramatic and too emotional for my own good. All the grand passions and histrionics. How do you do that while doing the bulletproof? Maybe with all my contradictions I’ll just conveniently cancel myself out. Maybe tomorrow the good Lord will take you away.