I have to leave to pick up Booie in about two minutes, so I really don't know why I borthered. I just got it in my head to write, so I was going to write, dammit.

I got on the treadmill. I know it's been over a month since I last used it, and I feel sufficiently guilty about that. At least I used it today, and I plan to keep using it.

5:17 p.m. - Until John Calls

I think John may not call because Hammy called him about four. He didn't say anything about when he was coming home, but he often doesn't call if we've talked to him anywhere near quitting time. Or Hammy forgot to mention it. I should ask, but that would mean I have to quit here and go make dinner. I'll quit at 5:45 instead.

I didn't do much today, even though Party #2 is looming. After the semi-rotten weekend, I didn't feel like doing much today. I'll probably get more done tonight. I've at least done a couple loads of laundry, and there's that time on the treadmill. I don't feel useless at least.

I feel surprisingly good, though I feel a bit of weight pressing on me, dread of when John gets home. It's like that a lot lately, and that makes me sad. I suppose I cause the same sense of dread in him for other reasons, still related. Today I just hope that he has done what he said or at least tells me the status. Regardless of what he has or has not done, he rarely brings up such things. I end up having to ask and resenting his avoidance as usual. Yet I always hope it will be different, like today. I don't expect it, but I do hope.

Once in a while, I just wish he would talk to me, bring up the subject of us. Every night we lie in bed, me reading, him falling asleep almost when his head touches the pillow, and I wish this night he will start talking to me. The few times it does happen, it's about scriptwriting, racing, or the band, never what I did or some previous subject that was important and left hanging. Very rarely he will tell me I looked nice, but that's it, not why I looked nice or what he felt about me.

My mom and dad used to talk every night, their conversations dwindling until I could hear my dad's snores. My mom did most of the talking, but it was a conversation, Dad's deeper tone carrying through their closet and our shared wall occasionally. I could never hear what was said, just the vocal exchange. It was a ritual for them, a way to connect at the end of the day.

Maybe I hope for too much by using my parents as an example. They are together and solid after more than thirty years in an age when divorce is more common than "death do us part." A different generation. Different people. I can count on one hand the number of times I've known them to argue. Their example is what I want, but maybe that isn't a possibility.

I often wish I had done like psychiatry accuses all women of doing and married a man just like my dad. John is quiet and shy and likes computers like my dad, but the comparison pretty much ends there. My dad has always shown love toward my mom, hugging and kissing her, even where strangers might see sometimes. I never doubted his respect for and pride in her. He loves and prefers to spend time with her. He's interested and participates in what she does.

No more time left, so I'll pine for a better love later.

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One Year Ago Today: