Busted.

       In hindsight, it was inevitable that this would happen. I could see it coming, like s slow moving train wreck.

       Looking back, the first signs were subtle, but unmistakable. Things just weren’t right, and I knew it.

       Sigh.

       You see, my camera is busted. I bought it used (still pricey at $500), and I should have known this would happen. The autofocus slowly stopped working and one day I noticed I always had to use manual mode, which is fine, until you try to get a spontaneous party shot. So, my camera is in the Can*n repair shop in New Jersey. To be more accurate, the expensive lens is in the repair shop. But the irony here is the lens is fine; it was the body that needed repair, which was done. I sent both in because I didn’t know which had the problem. But the company only mailed back the body, they still have the lens.

       Have you heard the sound of one hand clapping in a forest where no one is around and trees are falling? That’s exactly how easy it is for me to understand why I got a camera body sans lens shipped to me express within days of sending it in for repair, but they kept the lens, which is perfectly fine, until I called repeatedly and then came to the conclusion to also mail it to me, three weeks later, after I bug the shit out of them. Huh.

       So, shoot. But, wait, I can’t! ha ha ha. That means that my fun project of taking pictures and writing about cool Nashville spots is on hold.

       Lots of things are on hold, and it is annoying the shit out of me. I’ve got threads and strings and pieces of things started, and nothing to show for it. Big things, from selecting a 529 college savings plan for Genghis (hopefully he’ll be lucky this way) to figuring out where in the hell Squash and I will find time to reconnect and god forbid, get counseling together, in the same room, at the same time. The when, where and how outweigh the obvious what and why, which are accounted for. There’s been no progress in this area, and since we’ve both changed jobs (and therefore insurance), I have no idea how we are covered and what people will see us. And I almost don’t care.

       Until Saturday, when walking on the treadmill at the YMCA, I started crying. My back was hurting again, and it reminded me of the sore spot, unattended.

       I’m not getting what I need. I need attention, kindness, a nice gesture. Someone to notice that I’m shaking a little because of a chilly breeze that seems to follow me everywhere, Someone to ask me if I’d like to borrow his or her soft and ultra warm sweater in a pretty color. I need security, to not have to be the one strategizing about things like financing our son’s education. Why is it so hard to admit and to ask for? And worse, what if Squash can’t provide these things? I’ve hinted, I’ve moaned, I’ve groaned. I’ve made ultimatums. There’s been no progress. It’s still me, being conscientious and thoughtful and actually doing the research. Fuck it, I’m tired.

       So you see people, the back pain will return and I will again be reminded of the things I need, the things that I will not speak of, because it seems as if the answer is no, no, no. The answer is, do it yourself, or it will not be done.

       It still astonishes me that there are people out there living in wedded bliss, people who don't get how hard it is for the rest of us to be part of a coupledom. For lots and lots of reasons, all equally justified in my eyes. When people cheat, it's not about the sex. When people fight, it's not about the truthfulness or accuracy of the data. I don't think life-long monogamy is natural for homo sapiens sapiens, I think for most of us schmucks it takes lots and lots of desire and even more effort. In many cases, it's not worth it. Yet people judge.

       I have no choice but to wait for my lens so I can start a project that is solely for me and I think I'll enjoy. And I will slowly start working toward the "we" for Squash and I. But in the meantime, I wait.