Our covid alert level slides down a notch, from level 4, to level 3 as of midnight tonight.
That means I can go home and rebubble. I will pack my bag, get the dog stuff in the car today, and leave here at 6am to get to work by 8.30am tomorrow morning.
Then home afterwards. Our new bubble will be my younger daughter, my flatmate, me. Possibly my daughter’s friend and her Mum.
Then it will be another fortnight, at least, before we can move about a little more freely if it slides down to level 2. No one should come or go during that period either. So, time for the barman to work some stuff out a bit, and me to decide if he’s really worth it. He woke this morning after a big night of sleep talking and sleep apnoea – and me being up between 2am and 4.30am, which isn’t unusual for me post Leanne – he cuddled into me and moaned, “oh shit, I’m gonna miss you so much. How will I sleep without you in my bed? It’s coming right, I can feel it.” Referring of course to the mental thing he’s dealing with about relationships, sex, apparently-not-me 🤣
I will still be mostly working from home.
And I’m ready to get home now. I have so much to do. And I miss my daughter, who is sick and has really struggled, especially once level 4 was extended a few more days. I have a big renovation to plan and get done before winter hits. I have firewood to split and stack. I have sheep to shear and bolus and cattle to bolus and drench. I have to find a farrier who will be able to fit my horse in after lockdown! They haven’t been allowed to work for five weeks, so will be playing catch up, as they are overbooked at the best of times!
And it makes me realise – which I have known all along – that whilst I am very, very fond of the lovely barman – even feel some level of love for him – the level of passion is quite some notches down from what Rog and I had. I HATED to be away from him for even one night.
Even after thirty years.
Even after he had a year and a half long affair in our homes, with our ‘friend.’
I can’t wait to get home.
BG wants us to move in together. That isn’t on my agenda at present. There are some things that need to be worked through, and I have a plan for me that is a medium term one. To secure my financial future.
I mean, I know I miss BG when we are apart. He’s a lovely, loving, sweet, fun man. But, it’s not the deep yearning I felt when Rog and I slept apart. Unpopular as it is to say after being discarded and replaced by a “better” model, Roger is the love of my life.
And he changed that only insofar as we cannot be together, because he chose that for us, I had no say in the matter. Hasn’t stopped me loving him, the him he used to be. But I have enough self esteem and preservation to know that he is a selfish coward, who did whatever the fuck felt good. And fuck me. My use to him was gone.
The man he is now is not my Norm. My Snooks. My bear. My Hunk Lummox. My love monkey. Etc.
I used to think that this article applied, in our case. That one day, Rog would regret what he did to me. To us.
After all, he told me (bullshit) that the times he planned on leaving me for Leanne, he knew I would flourish, and he’d meet me one day, all glamorous, confident, glowing, and be pissed at himself for letting the best girl get away. For throwing her away.
The crap I bought! Jesus.
BG and I don’t really have stupid cutesy names for each other.
Or I don’t, for him. We have fallen into generic ‘babe, baby, sweets.’ I get the odd Josephine or Molly Whoppy.
He doesn’t know Roger’s various nicknames for our kids, our dogs.
For me. Those, and many others, were ours. Should have never been recycled to use for Trinket. I will never utter them to another man.
BG’s been so loving of Roger’s huntaway (working sheep dog) whom I ended up with, who has been our other bubble mate here. She goes to him for lovin’ always looking at me for permission. She’s very fiercely My Dog for sure. But he has taught her some new commands, and she follows them, looking at me every time she does. Very loyal.
We both miss my little dog, sequestered down the island at my elder daughter’s, to help keep my girls sane.
I don’t think you ever get another proper shot at The One.
That said, I’m not settling for “nice” and “companionable.” There is more to life than that. I would actually rather be alone than a convenience. Nice. Life is to be lived. Not settled for.
Without the passion, the deep connection, that wonderful, wonderful bond, you just have to find a different way forward, somehow. You do that being very gentle with your heart, very aware of your damage.
Time to go home.