Andare, Partire, Tornare

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Avoidance is your friend

If the first day of the new year is supposed to set the pattern for the rest of the year, Iíve got a lot of crying ahead of me. When youíre not prepared for an intense emotional scrutiny of yourself and your husband, when youíre already not in the best of moods and in the company of people you know slightly but who are hardly friends, itís a recipe for a night of tears and coming close to simply screaming incoherently at everybody and leaving in search of booze or a gun.

Some of what was said to me and Bemo needed to be said. I trust my friends enough to know it was all said in love. It was just not the time or the place, and the manner in which it was said wasnít all that great either. And a great deal of what was said, was already known intimately by both of us. Although I know it was all meant as friendly advice, it felt like an ambush. It was also very reminiscent of every lecture my momís given me in the past few years. Bemo hasnít got a full time job? Heís not trying hard enough. Fat? You just arenít making a real effort to do something about it. If you both would just stop obstructing yourself, you can both be like me, secure in job, house, sleeping soundly at night. Bemo held onto his temper like a champ, but I wasnít as good about holding back some hysterical sobbing. I simply did it in the bathroom with a fist in my mouth, muffling it as best I could. New Yearís Eve isnít the time to feel like everything would work out for the best if I could simply lie down and die.

Bemo and I had a long talk when we got home, and things are fine this morning, and I suppose weíre both feeling better. But thereís a raw spot that I am resolutely not poking at.

Instead, today we spent some time watching Penn State lose a squeaker to Auburn in a bowl game, eating Cornish Game Hens with Bemoís mom, and watching an ďI Love the EightiesĒ marathon on VH1. Good times.

8:45 p.m. - 2003-01-01

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