To quickly recap the 24 hours I spent by myself:
I did read a lot of the book I’d been lent, Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides, though I still have about 200 pages left to go. I made note of this passage, which has nothing to do with this blog, but does somehow speak to my life and the human condition, and so I felt like sharing it:
“Historical fact: people stopped being human in 1913. That was the year Henry Ford put his cars on rollers and made his workers adopt the speed of the assembly line. At first, workers rebelled. They quit in droves, unable to accustom their bodies to the new pace of the age. Since then, however, the adaptation has been passed down: we’ve all inherited it to some degree, so that we plug right into joysticks and remotes, to repetitive motions of a hundred kinds.” (p. 95)
I drank mostly tea, and ate mostly potato chips, yogurt, and apple slices with peanut butter on them.
I went to work, came home at midnight, and found that the parking spot closest to my apartment had somehow, miraculously been left empty for me. I put myself to bed, using the lavender eye pillow I’ve had since college, but which, since I started sharing a bed, now spends most of its nights in a drawer in my nightstand.
As I lay there by myself, with no one to touch but myself, I thought about how sometimes – not on this particular night, but sometimes – when I’m alone, masturbation seems so much more appealing than sex does when I’m with someone else. My theories as to why were no more romantic than the realization itself had been: masturbation is quick and easy and selfish; it can be accomplished as efficiently as any other number of bedtime rituals – brushing teeth, washing face; it can aid in sleep or renew energy or cure headaches.
Then I scolded myself for not being able to look at sex with a partner in such a practical, positive way. Yes, sex with a partner takes longer, there are more body parts to navigate, but the physical benefits are the same. Plus there are added emotional benefits, the biological fact that while women talk to make connections with other people, men feel most connected with their partners during the act of lovemaking. It’s the same principal as women wanting to talk about their problems and men wanting to find solutions. Women talk, men do. (Woman is currently talking to her computer late at night, while man is asleep in the other room, subconsciously or consciously hoping that woman will climb into bed, naked, and wake him back up.) I scolded myself for not having more sex with Doug, for not providing him with the kind of connection that he needs, and I remembered, again, how we used to have sex every day; if there was no time, we would make time, because our connection was more important than anything else. Now, one could infer, we are disconnected. At least I am disconnected, as it’s mostly when he’s not around – when no one is around – that sex even crosses my mind at all.
This is what I was thinking about as I fell asleep, and then I had a dream that my orthodontist told me my teeth weren’t the right color, and that I would need to continue wearing braces in order to fix them, and when I looked in the dream mirror, my teeth were not only discolored, but chipped and crooked as well. According to an online dream dictionary I consulted, “such dreams may stem from a fear of rejection, sexual impotence or the consequences of getting old.”
I slept in. I did the dishes and fed the rabbits, though I failed to clean their cages. I showered and dressed and got ready for an afternoon of football and junk food.
When Doug sent me a text to tell me he was on his way home, I left the door open for him. He walked in and immediately over to where I was sitting, pulled me out of my chair, and gave me a long, tight hug and a quick kiss. I, almost failing to realize how much he’d missed me too, told him he smelled like coffee.