JaneSome musings on the week after my birthday.

When I look back to where I was a year ago and where I am today, well, the first question that popped to mind was really, what’s the difference? Sure, I’m a year older and the names and faces of my problems have changed some, but overwhelmingly the questions at the root of them are still the same. And there’s still Graham. Sometimes I think I really need to either give him the boot or tell him to commit…… but ultimatums never really work, do they? I suppose because, “ultimately”, there’s still you at the center of the issue, never taking a side one way or another, just letting someone else’s stomping tip your scales in the next direction.

And which direction is that? A circle can be deceptive. It seems like you’re going to new angles and directions, but really it’s all just different flavors of one arc. You’re not really going anywhere at all, except perhaps closer and closer to the center of whatever you’re winding yourself around, making it increasingly difficult to extract yourself and chance course. But sometimes, by the time you notice that, you’ve completed a few rotations and are well settled into the cycle.

The circles match the path of the earth, so whose to say when they’re wrong and when they’re right? But what I want to know is, if there is a way to travel in circles, where each circle gets larger than the last? Where you experience more with each rotation instead of less? Where—instead of becoming more firmly pulled down by gravity—if one can reach closer and closer, year after year, to the stars?

I suppose then the danger becomes being flung wildly off-course and shooting off in a single straight line, forever. But then again, it seems that in that case you would finally be flying.

Feburuary 13th.

So here it is, Valentine’s Eve again. Or as Barney Stinson calls it, “Desperation Day.” Thanks, Barney. And it’s not that I’m lonely, I mean I do have someone. He’s just not here. And I know I’m not going to see him, we agreed not to do these “stupid commercial holidays.”

So why am I sitting here, staring at the DVD cover to my copy of When Harry Met Sally, not even remotely fooling myself?

He didn’t say it, but I know he’s spending the day with his wife. As I suppose he should. If I was his wife, or a wife at all for that matter. . . I’d expect to see my husband on Valentine’s Day. Even if I knew he was a high-fallutin’ intellectual elitist snob who wouldn’t know romance if it kicked him in the face.

I shouldn’t call him. I shouldn’t call. And I won’t. But it’s not going to keep me from wishing he would.  “I think I should hear her out,” he said. That’s what he said to me the last time I brought it up. “She wants to talk to me about us. . . and I think I should hear her out.”

That was six months ago. How have I become this passive? What did she say? Did she even say anything? Or maybe the whole point is that there’s nothing to say. It will either happen or it won’t. He’ll either leave her or she doesn’t. And I’ll either sit here, or. . .

Or what? Sit here? Is there an alternative?

I clearly need to make one.