spiral of doom
some distraction, but not as we know it

sights for sore eyes

Some backstory: I am rather short on sight, blind as a potato, and when I go to the pool, the better to wave my arm around as if training for the synchronised swimming event in the Arm Olympics 2012*, I remove my glasses. I then walk/swim around in a fog, marveling at how all the other people are reduced to blobs, as if painted by an Impressionist. This is wonderfully liberating. It's hard to have prejudices if you can't see if you are swimming alongside a grey-haired man rather than a annoyingly smooth and fit young wan.

But even I could see a canoodling couple in the pool. "Ooh, brave" I thought. "You never know when a situation could arise." And even I, with my weak eyesight, could plainly see when the young fella got out of the pool that a situation had indeed reared its head.
GAH. Mortification by proxy.

The JB is back from Canada where he'd been lying around being fed grapes by servants in gold tunics, or, sitting on a panel in a conference, as he refers to it. So early Tuesday morning found me waiting for him in the arrivals hall. There were touching reunions all around, and I was becoming misty-eyed at the way we people form attachments, at our wonderfully human capacity to love.
Ah.

I got a text from the JB saying he was waiting for his bag.
"Let's run together in slow-motion when we see each other" he said.
But sadly we were too chicken, (ah, if only I were brazen, I'd like that) and we had to satisfy ourselves with a hug, suitable for public consumption. I was glad to have him back.

Meanwhile, in another county, my father is settling in back home. He still has work to do, but he's getting on well, and I think he and my mother are adjusting to this new turn of the page.
(Strange, this marriage thing, isn't it? You hitch your star to someone else's, in the name of love, on a hunch, really, but with no inkling of what might happen, and you can but hope for the best.)

Your, blinking in bemused fashion,
Twangy

*Arm-waving as recommended by my physio. We had another torture session yesterday, and this time, instead of crying, I laughed semi-hysterically. It still hurt. The spangly-eyed one twisted and levered, pummeled and pounded as if her life depended on it, but somehow I was more prepared, and it was okay (sort of). And worth it, because it does seem to be working.

Comments

May

I fall about laughing at the couple in the pool. Ohhhhh dear.

Glad JB is back. And yes, marriage is odd, really. I wonder why we do it. And, then I look at H, and wonder why we don't. Well, not we, we. More generally, we. I'm making no sense at all, am I?

Also glad arm was better this time, and the merciless beatings are helping.

Twangypearl

Oh, my thoughts exactly. In the particular it makes sense, doesn't it? I used to think it'd be strange to have someone contracted to love you, so to speak, but now, I'm glad.
'Tis verily a mystery.

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