Ah the angst..... I'm just kidding. Sort of.
So, for some elusive reason I have this wierd 60 day thing. It isn't really a 'thing', but more like something that I just sort of realized one day and went, oh. OH. At risk of making Mandy even more sick to her stomach than she already is, I'll go into a bit of detail. About 2 years ago I had a stupid breakup with a stupid man (who was a closet gay by the way, hehehe...). Yes, you heard me right, and it was . Anyway, the whole thing just didn't feel right to me and I decided at some point to just break it off cleanly and walk away. For some reason I turned introspective about my past and present relationship patterns and came to the realization that, for me, a romantic relationship with anyone but Mr. Right In Every Way Right Down to the Shape of His Toenails has a life span of about 60 days.
I have become so aware of this phenomenon that at this point in my life when the 60 day mark approaches I can just about guarantee that I will have had at least one freak out before I meet (or more likely run from) the deadline.
So, to my point. Tonight, for my current probationer, marks 59 & 1/2 days. Last night was my first real scare in this whole probationary process. Dom pulled some of her usual stuff, you know, meltdown... tantrum... I hate everything about everything kind of nonsense, which with Dom is usually amplified at about 50+ the normal power of your average teenager girl drama. Really and truly, I do not exadurate this. This is a testing moment for me, I think to myself... do I call Mr. Potentially Right In Every Way Right Down to the Shape of His Toenails? It is an ideal time to lean on him and see what kind of earth shattering super powers he really possesses. Or do I give in to the little voice that says, Bridget, you know there is a strong possibility that if he has any wet mop in him at all he will cave and fold and take this opportunity to bow out of this potential train wreck with the Domster and convey his condolences to the survivors? *whew*
Well, I called. Or he called. Or we called. I do not recall. We did a lot of calling.
I was frightened, but resolute. If he caves, he caves, I thought to myself. If he gets squishy, it's inevitable that he may not be able to handlle Dom's brand of intensity. A few dozen pints of pistachio ice cream will have me well on the mend. Well, he wasn't a wet mop at all, not even a little damp. No sign of wishy-washyness anywhere. Hmmm. Mmmm. Well, honestly, I knew in my heart that he wouldn't bend.
Good job Mr. PRIEWDTTSOHT. 60+ days, here I come.............
Oh yeah, I'm writing for Gawker now
6 years ago