Life Happens Hard

It is time to pull my head out of the sand and write about it.

Is it?

 I have a new desk, which I had spent a couple of days admiring from the other side of the window on the pavement outside a stylish furnishings shop. It is a wood-topped table with three wooden drawers held in place by a brushed and muted metal frame. I was afraid I would lose my chance if I didn’t act fast. The same shop had had a beautiful wooden chest in the same spot where the desk was displayed. I had thought about buying that wooden chest, but whilst I was thinking about it, someone more quick to act than me scooped it up, and it was gone. I didn’t want the same thing to happen to ‘my’ desk, so I walked in the shop, pointed to the desk, and said, “I want that desk.”

The shop lady told me I had to pay ½ immediately and the 2nd half later. I didn’t want there to be any ambiguity about my intentions so I plopped down the full amount there and then. The desk is mine.

With a new desk in my new flat it might be time to write about – or if not properly write about, at least state the reason for - putting my head in the sand.

The putting my head in the sand and operating through a fog is the reason for my infrequent blogging.

How can you write about the meals that you eat, the trees that line the boulevards, and all the small things when a tragically momentous occurrence (for you) throws you into a fog?

There is also the fact that I must respect the privacy of my beloved and so the writing about it must remain obtuse.

When I moved into my new flat, I moved here without My Man. He is living just a 10 minute walk down the same street. We continue to love each other fiercely and see each other almost daily, but that does not undo the fact that life has thrown us a challenge, and, for the moment at least, in response to this challenge, we are living separately.

The past three to six months have been topsy-turvy and tear-filled. I have questioned my most fundamental life choices. This is life happening. Sometimes it’s easier to do it from a fog and to write about it from a whim-fully purchased new desk.

Sleep Evades

I had hoped to sleep on the plane. The previous night I had woken at two in the morning; and, although I know I must have fallen back to sleep at some point because I dreamt ... about Sarah Dougall, a girl with whom I had gone to university and whom I hadn't really known but had always liked / admired / wished to be friends with.

She was so cool. She had been to Europe. Both of her parents were dead so she had some tragic maturity about her. She didn't care so much for me. She was always polite but kept her distance.

In my dream she had put on a lot (ALOT) of weight. Thinking we recognized something in the other, yet unsure in our instincts, we eyed each other from across the office lobby that occupied my dream. She was working for my client in Switzerland. As soon as we placed each other, talked, and had our curiosity sated, Sarah lost interest in further conversation. It was just like university.

Because it was a dream, I know I fell back asleep at some point; but It wasn't any kind of sleep that counts.

I groped for my phone every fifteen minutes to check the time.

A good night's sleep would have been very convenient. A full day of meetings and a late evening flight awaited me: in other words I was going to be full-on with no chance of a small respite until the flight 17 hours later.

Fuck. Why can't I sleep?

That's what I thought from 2 til 6 this morning. That's what I'm thinking right now on the delayed flight home.

Insurance Pays

I had my first dental experience in Spain. Dentist appointments (for routine cleaning) are, for me, like haircuts. I fail to make the required appointment in advance so when I need to have my teeth cleaned (or my hair cut) I am generally desperate for the cleaning (or the cutting) and find myself pleading with the gatekeeper on the other end of the phone for a slot in the diary.

Today! Today! (at the latest tomorrow.) Please!

I was surprised that there was no hemming and hawing about fitting me in for a professional teeth cleaning, especially given that my choices of dental cleaning facilities were limited by both my postal code and my insurance policy. Less than 24 hours would pass between the moment of my dental crisis ...I need a cleaning now!... and the cleaning itself, thanks to the luck of the appointment book (or the crisis?... Are people skimping on dental hygiene?).

I arrived for my cleaning armed with all the appropriate paperwork from the insurance company. The girl at the reception desk didn't seem quite prepared to handle the paperwork. She handed it back after a cursory glance and informed me that they didn't need to fill out this form; it was for me only. "But what is this section for then?" I asked innocently.

Patiently, she took the forms back and read through the section I had pointed out. "Oh. I suppose we do fill this out." she proceeded to fill in boxes under the "To be completed by the doctor" section of the form and finally stamped it with an official looking dentist's stamp. Very surprising given her first reaction, and, I thought, "She must be new."

The cleaning happened. The dental hygenist was too kind for my liking. She did not reprimand me at all. In fact she praised the state of my mouth, a sure sign for an incomplete procedure. After a no more than 15 minute cleaning procedure, she walked me, feeling dissatisfied, to the receptionist's desk.

The receptionist asked for my insurance card.

"But you took the details earlier ... " I thought to myself without saying anything.

She swiped the insurance card through the credit card reader.

"She has no idea what she is doing." I thought to myself without saying anything. "It's not a credit card!"

I stood at the receptionist's desk after she had handed my insurance card back to me. She, the receptionist, looked at me. I looked at her. I was clearly waiting to finalize the transaction. "That's it." She let me know the transaction was completed.

No money had exchanged hands; I had no receipt to accompany the form she had completed and stamped.

Now, I only have to trust that the process, for as mysterious as it is to me, works. In the meantime I will hold onto the completed form until such a time that I think it is safe to recycle.