Can’t Stop the Train

I’ve been thinking a lot about boundaries, lately, obviously. Mom and I have some clearly articulated boundaries, about which I feel pretty strongly. For example, I want her to speak for herself for as long as she can. I want her to make her own decisions for as long as she can. It’s a mark of my respect for her, but it’s also a safeguard for me, so that I don’t have to take responsibility for her before it’s time.

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There are times when Grey-Area Guy knows things I haven’t explicitly told him. For example, his timing has always been pretty crazy— he just seems to know when to reach out and what to say when he does. Friday, I wrote here about “marathon, not a sprint,” and in our conversation later that day, he used that expression with me. It’s not the first time something like that has come up.

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What I Want to Be When I Grow Up

Almost without exception, my favorite teachers have always been English teachers. I grew up loving to read, and it turns out I have some natural talent for writing, as well. I had English teachers who introduced me to great books and set my imagination free. I also had some great teachers in history, over the years, and teachers in other disciplines from whom I learned a lot, but I can tell you the most about my English teachers.

At the end of high school, my mom made me promise that I wouldn’t be a teacher or a counselor. She’d heard that counselors had a high suicide rate, and didn’t want that for me. She also knew that teachers are chronically underpaid and overworked. I agreed, but it was a bit of a white lie of an agreement.

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It’s been awhile, I know. Briefly, to catch up, Grey Area Guy and I are still on some kind of road. We’ve moved through periods of high intensity in our communication and connection, and we’re in a low-intensity time for the last few days. He’s been under the weather and has some work hectic to face, and I’m still in a fairly intense time at work (though that situation is better than it’s been in awhile) and at home (mostly pleasant getting the yard ready for spring, but there’ve been three ER visits with Mom, so, y’know, not entirely pleasant or lacking stress.) I let him know that I care about his being sick and under some pressure, but I’m taking the time we’d normally be chatting and flirting and using it productively, rather than getting worried or upset about it.

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And the hits just keep on coming.

Over the weekend, I saw a post from the ex that I really thought I could build a life with. He’s never been much for Facebook (by which I mean that he has posted literally nothing since we broke up— I wasn’t even sure he was still on Facebook), so I wasn’t expecting to see it. Also, we dated more than six years ago, so I wasn’t thinking much about him at all.

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Devoid of Chill

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve been keeping an eye on the senior member of the menagerie, who has seemed… not himself. I’ve been noticing that he’s lost weight, and he’s a little lethargic, and in an exhausting flurry over the last 24 hours, he got dramatically worse, such that he was really ill by the time I got him seen by my family vet. They think he has pancreatitis, maybe diabetes, and are keeping him for a few days to stabilize him and figure out a course going forward.

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