Seeing the signs

The words surprised me but they also soothed me. There it was on my mango smoothie bottle, a message that goes against every article on how to keep the romance alive, all kinds of advice I’ve heard about how to get and stay together. They were just the words I needed to read.

“Separation is natural.”

I took it for more than it was clearly meant. I drank it up.

The Not Boyfriend has been in the field for two weeks and this time around, I’ve been quieter about it, calmer. I’ve only filled his email inbox with a handful of forwards and links from the New York Times and raunchy e-cards.

The one brief call we got during the blackout weeks when he is otherwise without a cell phone or any other contact made me squeal rather than sad.

I haven’t filled my time with double-booked dinner dates or shopped myself into complete distraction. I’ve let the impulse to write long messages to him pass. I decided against crossing off calendar boxes, and have even lost track a few times of how much time it will be until he can maybe, possibly ring me again.  I’ve Pema-ed out any chance for worry to get the best of my time to take care of some things that have needed my attention – like hyper-organizing every bathroom drawer and cabinet, for example. It’s been different than other times we’ve been this far from contact.

But then his birthday arrived and the ache to give him my wishes in person or even over Skype welled up.

I left him a silly video on Facebook, sent him a text he won’t see for days and told myself that I’d get my opportunity for everything I want now in good time.

That good time is ten days away, and seven weeks since I last saw him. 

It’s not easy, ever. Not even when our visits are closer together, not when we spend all day texting smart ass stuff back and forth.  But complicated doesn’t equal bad or tough or not good or not worth it. Being apart isn’t ideal, but maybe being in the dark once in a while doesn’t have to be awful.

I refuse to go so far to say absence makes the heart any kind of bullshit because the truth is, I would really love for him to be much closer.  That doesn’t have to be today or tomorrow or before the next holiday or when this whole time in the field is over.  It just needs to be in good time.

I felt some relief when his birthday passed, like I could turn my eyes toward my own travels and tasks that need my attention before I give it all to him a week-and-a-half from now.

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Lighting fires

I know, I know...you might all think I just sit around here at Sassafrass not blogging and not buying shoes. Some of that's true. But I'm also hard at work starting conversational fires on Shine. Grab your s'mores stuffs, friends, and let's get cooking about what I can do, don't know about and could obviously give some extra effort:

• Apparently, I can't tell the difference between Pippa's bootayyy and Kate's. I'm clearly at a disadvantage since they probably teach that class in Women's Studies grad school now and so didn't when I was there. Oh well.

• This lady became a lawyer while she was in labor. I listened to Sarah McLachlan and flipped off the camera.

• "Body of the Year" went to...not-Brooklyn Decker. Hooray! And I discover I crack myself up making fun of Kardashians even more than I would have guessed.

• Cheesecake Factory's new menu makeover is called "SkinnyLicious." I call for a ban on adding "licious" to any words. I also call for a full-calorie slice of key lime cheesecake, thank you.

• This film competition is long over. But the six-line challenge is new to me and I can't stop thinking about it...and how to say what I need to say in a much more concise way (and not rhyme).

• Rosario Dawson is pissed she was told she looked good when she was emaciated for her role in "Rent."  StupidLicious beauty standards.

• Real-live placentas ground into pills for new moms. With video. You're welcome.

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He put together this get-up himself

I didn't even have to encourage him.

I swear.

No, really. I promise. I didn't ask him, "Whatever happened to those hifreakinglarious 3D glasses we...OK, I....cried behind during the Bieber movie?"

I did not pretend to read that t-ball medals from 2010 are, according to Vogue, totally what's hot for accessorizing in the first grade.

No noogying of the hair and shimmying on of the baseball cap in a sideways fashion just to be crazy.

I didn't force those mesh athletic shorts that are already rolled over once at the waist and still hang down entirely too low upon his narrow-bodied self. Didn't buy or decide it was the right time for the  too-big "blegggghhhh" monster t-shirt.

Honestly, I played no part in this.

It was all him. Completely, totally his very own outfit.

What does my hands-off approach to this picture prove? Only that strategically devised goofy get-ups really are genetic. And despite a moment in 1997 that some may argue very well could have been a sign of divorce to come, during which his father wore aquarium print jams out in public, I am quite sure this whole ensemble only shows he really truly is mine.

So keep your swab tests and Maury reveals. I've got this one.

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