This morning, I was on my way to the Allergist with #1 Son when my cell phone rang. It was Pure Luck, calling from a payphone in northwestern Connecticut.
“Hi! Want to come and pick me up?”
“I’ve accomplished what I set out to do. I’m ready to come home.”
(Translation: The shorts he wore when he thru-hiked in 2000 fit again, or something like that.)
“Sure, or tomorrow.”
“Let me pull over so we can talk about this.”
We eventually negotiated a pick-up tomorrow, when I have only one appointment to cancel and the dogs were going to daycare anyway.
I must have sounded irritated, because #1 Son said, “Aren’t you happy that he wants to come home sooner?”
I must be, right? After all, I went to sleep feeling miserable last night because I wasn’t going to see him until next Thursday. I was missing him awfully.
Have you ever known someone who enjoys poor health?
I think on some level I was enjoying being stressed out and time-crunched and all that goes with it, to wallow in my fear of abandonment and anxiety about reunion. I sometimes like to ride the downward spiral, to sink and sink and sink some more, to imagine reasons why things are worse even than they seem, to be the heroine of my own inner drama.
Darn him for stopping me before it played out all the way!!
Okay, not really.
(Okay, maybe a little bit really, but I’m sure I’ll get over the disappointment tomorrow, somewhere between here and South Egremont, Massachusetts!)