Were you surprised? I was surprised. Really, really surprised.

Well, this is something I never really expected to happen. And I have to say I'm a little... anxious?

I'm meeting Kevin tonight for drinks. Yup, you read that right. Kevin. The Ex. The one I've barely had any contact with for the past 4+ years.

Well, there's some family stuff to be dealt with so he's in town from the East Coast for a bit. I had heard about this and thought it'd be nice to send him a short "I'm thinking of you" email. At the end of which I said, "I'm sure you have lots of loving people around you at this time, but if you need a moment away from that, let me know." Totally not expecting him to accept. Not sure why I put it in there, but I did.

He accepted.

I mean, I'm fine with it. I think. I did offer, right? But I totally didn't expect him to accept. So tonight, we're meeting for a drink and some nibbly bits at an "out-of-the-way" place.

Nervous? Not exactly. Anxious? Maybe a little. I'm just... I dunno. It's been 4+ years and the only time I've spoken to him was one random night when I had been drinking for about eight hours beforehand. And I don't really remember much from it. Perhaps I should do that again. Which means I should start drinking.... now.

Alright, I'm out. Wish me luck!!

Can I please catch a break?

I have a problem. With staying vertical. Now I know what many of you will say... "Heh-heh, yeah. You like the horizontal tango!!" Well, yes I do. But this problem is associated with cycling. I've posted many times before about my problems with staying upright on my bike (I've wiped out no less than three times in the past year) and my problems with avoiding inanimate objects (I ran into a dumpster at one point). No, I'm not counting getting hit by a car as a problem I've had cuz, well... he ran the light and hit me.

Anyway, I've been doing very well with staying vertical lately. I learned a few tricks from my SBF on how to recover when it seems like you're about to lay down your bike and how to improve the traction of your tires when the roads are slippery. However, I guess I really am the clutz that I never wanted to admit that I am.

I was riding to a bike shop the other day (ironic, isn't it) and just as I'm cycling up to the front door my front tire slips into a crack between the parking lot and the sidewalk in front of the shop. And gets stuck. While I was trying to turn the handlebars to head to one of the bike racks. So, I'm trying to move the bike in one direction and the bike is basically telling me that this is not physically possible given the current situation of the tires. And then gravity enters the conversation and tells me that I'm needed in a meeting on the ground. I try in vain to catch my footing on the pavement before I completely keel over, but it was really a vain attempt.

I went down. Right in front of the automatic doors that slid open as I fell. Which revealed my stumble to several cycslists all done up in their riding gear and sparklingly pretty bikes as they were heading out for a ride.

Once... just once... I'd like for my falls to not be witnessed by half of Austin so I could try to salvage a little bit of my dignity.

The Letter

It was really only a matter of time. I didn't do anything to keep my previous postings about the end of my relationship with Brit Boy private, so it really was only a matter of time before he read them. As I have said many times to many different situations, the story of Brit Boy and I has three sides. His side. My side. And the truth. Each of our recollections of how things went down are influenced by each of our pasts, the way we process information, the way we were feeling at the time we heard the statements of the other, etc. As such, he responded to my posts with a rather lengthy explanation of his side of things. A lengthy explanation that provided me with a great deal more insight into things than the conversations we had in the desert of Spain.

I will simply say this. Umm... Well... You see...

*sigh*

I have no words. And herein lies my problem. Am I expected to respond? Do I just let it go and cast it off? And of course, a number of friends have offered their advice on the situation.

"Oh honey, just hit delete and be done with the whole thing."

"Let me guess, you've been drafting your response since you received it and you've been editing and reworking it for the past couple of days. Step away!!"

"Baby, all you need to do is reply with one word, "received." That's it. Done!!" (At this point, this friend literally wiped his hands).

Taking a page from Dorothy Zpornak I think I may start this out as an exercise in catharsis. Start writing something to purge the thoughts from my head. WIth no intention of sending it. I've said before that I can't really envision being able to talk to him anytime soon, so perhaps this will help with the healing I so terribly need.

Must be something about the fresh produce...

As is to be expected, things haven't been all that hunky-dory since I've returned from Europe to Austin. I've been rather reclusive, ignoring requests to venture out into the world, focusing on what little routine I feel comfortable engaging in, diverting any excess energy to my workout regimen, etc. Part of this I've been able to blame on the Texas heat. I mean, when you're cycling home when its 105 F outside, when you get home you don't really want to do anything but sit around and cool off.

However, I haven't been able to besmirch the necessity of going to the grocery store. Since one of the gyms I frequent is next to a grocery store, I tend to dash in for a few items after a workout or when I teach class. However, each time I do my eyes start to well up with tears and I have to quickly complete my purchases and jump on my bike before I actually lose all composure and start balling in the middle of the yogurt section.

Seriously! What is it about a grocery store that makes me think about Brit Boy, the breakup, and everything else?

Workout: FAIL!!

Twelve years. That's how long I've been focusing, on a consistent basis, on my physical health and working out in the gym. I had worked out while in high school and college, but was always a little intimidated by the weight room and always let it slide from my schedule if I didn't have someone to "hold my hand," so to speak. For most of these 12 years, I've had a workout partner. Someone to chat with, hold me to my workouts, push me for that last little bit of effort, etc.

As of late, however, I've been on my own. My workout partner, who also happens to be my SBF, has been out of town on a cycling tour of the Western United States. Albuquerque, N.M. to Portland, Ore. Personally I think he's a bit crazy, but I hear cycling over the Rocky Mountains is something magnificent to experience. I'll take his word for it.

Since I've been on my own I've been reticent to push myself too hard for fear of injuring myself without someone to help me out if I were to find myself in trouble. However, after a few weeks of working out on my own I've started to gain some newfound confidence in this arena. Pushing myself to lift more weight. Having the confidence that even though I am tired, I can actually finish that last set.

Last night I was at the gym and was really putting myself through the paces. It always help to have a goal - I leave for Burning Man in less than a month and I still have yet to recover, in my physical fitness, from this past session. Also, how am I supposed to attract a new beau if my body is in its current state? Remember... the neurosis of my vanity is very severe and well-documented.

So, there I was, finishing up a rather challenging upper-body workout and I was winding things up with a set on the flat bench. First set... no problem. Tired, but I got through it. Second set... a little challenging near the end. A little wobbly and I definitely struggled on the last two reps. At this point, it would have been wise to ask someone else in the weight area for a spot for the third set. I know rather well that if you struggle on the last few reps of a set, on the next set things are gonna be a bit more challenging.

Did I ask for a spot from the cute guy that was working out next to me? No. Of course not. "I can do this... no problem," I said to myself. And in fact, things went quite well for the first 4 reps of the set. On number 5, things got a bit wobbly and strained, but I did it. As I was lying on the bench, arms extended and holding the bar I took several deep breaths as I contemplated the next rep. "Do you have one more in you? At least one more?" I asked myself. "Yeah... just one though... I can make it through one more."

I slowly lowered the bar. I popped it off my chest and started to push. About half-way up, my chest burning, my triceps screaming, I knew it wasn't gonna happen. I took in a deep breath and tried to push it up a little bit further. I tried to get the bar up to the "emergency" or "secondary" brackets on the bench frame. Those brackets that are there for this express purpose. When you can't quite get the bar all the way up. (Isn't there a prescription for this problem?) Nope. Couldn't make it.

The bar dropped back down onto my chest. I just stayed there, pinned to the bench for a second and contemplated what to do. In vain, for I knew there was no way I could do it, I tried once more to push the bar up but I was done. Luckily, as soon as I resigned myself to the fact that I needed help and lifted my head, some guy walked by and litterally did a triple take at me pinned to the bench. Apparently this was not a typical sight to be seen.

"Can I get a little help?" I asked, trying to joke about it. "Seems my triceps decided I'm done."

"Oh my god, of course," he replied. "Couldn't quite get that last one finished, huh?"

And with that he freed me from my bench press prison. I thanked him and started to nurse my aching triceps. Worn out are not the words I would choose for what I was feeling.

It is now official

Part of the plans that Brit Boy and I had put into place for us to be together was for me to apply to grad school in the UK. It was a wonderful plan cuz I've been wanting to pursue my masters degree for some time but hadn't really found a program that interested me here in the states. In the UK, however, there were a number of programmes about which I was very intrigued.

As I've stated before, I applied to two universities and, again as I've stated before, while I was visiting the UK, I had interviews at both universities to see which programme was going to be the best fit. I was accepted to both programmes, even receiving a personal letter from the head of the programme at the University of Westminster stating that he was very looking forward to me joining their programme and working with me this upcoming academic year.

Well, now that Brit Boy and I are no longer together, I have decided that it's best to not attend grad school this fall. Part of it is financial - Brit Boy and I had agreed that I would support him with living expenses while he was here and not able to work and he would support me with living expenses in the UK while I was in school. Now that everything is over, I basically cannot afford London for the duration of the programme right now. Another part of the reason is that I'm still a space cadet from such a huge shock to my life that I don't think it'd be wise for me to head off to a new place with no safety net to speak of. Basically, I need to be home with my family of friends.

However, I am so absolutely ecstatic about the programmes that I am definitely going to make this happen. So, I have now officially requested deferred admissions for the 2010-2011 academic year. Here's hoping they like me enough to let me push this back by a year.

Houston, we have a problem

Y'all know that I have a serious substance abuse issue. I do love me some shoes. This problem has been identified and well-documented in the past. Since returning from Europe, things have taken a turn for the worse. Well, I guess it did start while in Europe, technically. In the month of July , I succumbed to tempation and acquired four additional pairs of shoes. I've even had to add more shelving to my closet in order to hold all of the shoes I own. (Actually, that's not even true. I have five pairs of shoes at the office for when I cycle to work and I left three pairs in London for my then-planned move to London to be with Brit Boy and they are supposedly on their way back to me.)

The shoes you see to the left are just my latest acquisition. They're these fabulous Adidas track shoes that come with cleats. They're super comfy and I got a lot of compliments when I took them out for their maiden voyage (sans cleats) the other night. However, I've decided that I might be interested in wearing them with the cleats. That way, if someone pisses me off, I can simply stomp on their foot with the cleats and give them their due.

Hey! Don't judge!! I'm a bundle of emotions these days. You never know what might just set me off!!!

Clarification

I've received a few notes from some of y'all, some in the comments on my postings, and some in IM chats or emails asking if I thought or simply stating that this was all very malicious of him. Having me come over to England, travel through France to Spain only to break up with me. Let me take this opportunity to make this clear: As angry, bitter, depressed, saddened, shocked, numb, and completely shattered as I am about this, I do not feel that this was a secret plan of his.

As I stated, our reconnection in England seemed to be going swimmingly. Plans were being finalized. Conversations were happening. Things were falling into place. That, and I don't really think that he could have faked the smile on his face when I emerged from customs at the airport. That embrace. The feel of his arms around me. Perhaps I'm projecting, but I don't think so. I think it was genuine.

However, I think he was having a great deal of trouble reconciling the plans needed to put his self-realizations into action while also making the plans of me going to grad school in either London or Leeds come to fruition. I also got the sense that, even though he never said this, with the university in London being my top choice, he became a bit resentful of me. For he's been wanting to get out of London for some time. In our final discussion, after he told me about the university with which he was "in conversations" he made it very clear that he was sick and tired of things always coming up to keep him in London. Did he mean it the way it came out? Has my shocked and numb mind taken that as a statement he didn't intend? I don't know.

What I do know is that I don't think this was all planned. I think with us both being in such states after our months of stressful times, with that divide that seemed to have grown between us... I guess he just didn't see any other way to make everything happen. Personally, I see it as a bit of a cop-out, but to each their own. With all the difficulties we've faced up until now, I can't see a way that we wouldn't have been able to overcome whatever obstacles were in our path.

A very, very dear friend of mine, one which actually encouraged me to pursue this connection with Brit Boy over two years ago, stated that it seemed like ours was a relationship of difficulties and that perhaps they finally became too much. He also asked if this truly was the end. A few others of y'all have asked the same thing. And I don't know. I know that I have a philosophy of "You only get to break up with me once," but I don't really feel like I understand everything. Brit Boy said a lot of things, but I have yet to be able to reconcile those issues with the commitments we had made to one another and the plans we had made together.

Oh well, perhaps I will never know. Being several time zones away and with me not wanting any kind of communication from him at all right now (He sent out an email to a listserve to which I had yet to unsubscribe... I started crying at just seeing his name in my inbox), it doesn't really look like we'll be having many more conversations.

The Adventure

You can imagine that I didn't stay on the event site for very long after this all went down. I wanted to leave immediately, but both Senor Mas Fuerte and Shay Butter Boy convinced me to sleep and see if I wanted to have some more conversations with Brit Boy the next day. So, I did the deed of the dutiful divorcee and moved out of our tent and slept in a Shay Butter Boy's tent, curled up in my faux fur coats for warmth and comfort.

The next day, before we had our final discussions, Brit Boy stated that he was trying to help out and coordinate a way for me to get off site the next day with some friends of his. I looked at him and said, "I'm catching a train in roughly two hours and will make my own way home. The time for you to be concerned about my travel arrangements is now over." I know he was trying to be helpful, but no. His participation was longer necessary.

Senor Mas Fuerte and Shay Butter Boy drove me to the train station (before which we stopped in the town of Seriňena and had a few nice cold beers and some lovely tapas) and saw me off. I was headed to Zaragoza for the night. What was I gonna do? Where was I gonna stay? No clue. I just knew that I had to get away from the place where Brit Boy was.

As luck would have it, I met someone from Austin on the train to Zaragoza. He and his travel partner were staying in a rather nice, they claimed, hostel and invited me to come along. I did and I really enjoyed hanging with them. After we got to the hostel, which was rather nice I must say, we ventured out for more cold beer, some food, and to just see what the nightlife of Zaragoza consisted of.

Well, it doesn't consist of much. At least not close to where we were staying. We found a nice sidewalk cafe, got some mediocre food (I finally got my paella, as disappointing as it was), and had a grand time revelling in the surliness of our waitress. When we asked for some mustard ("Tienes mostaza?") she felt it necessary to correct our accent, for since we were Americans we did not have the correct accent for Spain. "Mothtaaaaaaaza," she repeated back to us. "Mosthtaaza," we repeated. "No!! Mothtaaaaaaaaaaaaaaza," she said, more loudly and more slowly. Content that she had "learned us good" she turned and ventured off to get the mothtaaaaaaaaaza.

The next day, we did a little bit of sight-seeing before I boarded another train to Barcelona. I have to say, I was impressed with my ability to communicate with the Spanish, even though I didn't have the correct accent. I speak Tex-Mex Spanish, not Casitilian Spanish, so it was a little challenging, but I made it work. I'm sure I sounded like the tourists to America that ask questions like, "Do you have the knowledge of how I can obtain the information of how to get to the station of the train?" Well, they understood what I wanted and we were able to communicate. However, I do remember that in one shop I was looking for some tea and the lady kept asking if I wanted coffee. I know very well that I was asking properly. Perhaps she just couldn't imagine anyone not wanting coffee.

It was in Barcelona that I caught a plane to London so that I could catch my return flight home. I must say that I was a little disappointed that I couldn't spend more time in Barcelona, as it was absolutely beautiful and so intriguing. When I did get into the city, I quickly went to the airport, got a flight, checked in my bags, and then buggered off back into the city for what little bit of sight-seeing I could squeeze in. This turned out to be a 90-minute whirlwind of a retail therapy shopping spree (ahem.... global economic stimulation trip) in the shops surrounding the Plaza del Catalunya.

It was FABULOUS. Beautiful people, beautiful architecture, wonderful foods to sample. It was grand. As I was finishing up my spree and heading back to catch the bus back to the airport I saw it. Something I hadn't seen before, and I really have no idea how I missed it. H&M. In Barcelona. "Do I have time squeeze in ONE more shop?" I was thinking to myself. "It is H&M. In Barcelona. When will you get this chance again?"

I darted in... ran up three flights of stairs (completely ignoring the pain in my left ankle from falling into the ditch two days prior) and started shopping frenetically. In and out in a total of 15 minutes. I simply saw cute things, checked the size, and grabbed. "Hey, if they don't fit me, I have lots of friends that I can gift these to!" (Umm... they all pretty much fit. So I'm good)

As I was almost speed-walking across the plaza to the bus stop (I saw the bus rounding one corner of the plaza as soon as I stepped out of H&M) this cute Spaniard and I make eye contact as we're walking toward one another. We hold eye contact. He smiles. I smile. We turn our heads to maintain eye contact as we pass one another. After a couple of steps I stop and turn around. He has done the same, then cocks his head to one side, and deepens his smile. I look at him. I turn and look over my shoulder to see my bus arriving. I look back at him, shrug my shoulders, and tap my fingers on my wrist to say, "I have no time." He nods, continues to smile, and we turn away from one another.

I catch my bus, catch my flight, and head back to London to catch my flight home the next day.

Sally Field I am not

Right after he uttered the words, I stood up and left his company. I walked toward the edge of our camp and stared off into the night. Tears streaming down my face. My breath coming in gasps. Brit Boy walked up behind me and tried to put his arm around me. I don't remember what he started to say but I told him to "just leave." He did.

Shortly thereafter two friends came up to me and put their arms around me. These two are new characters here so let's call them Senor Mas Fuerte (don't ask) and Shay Butter Boy (again... really... don't ask). I can only assume that Brit Boy told them what he had done and had them come check on me. I was very glad for their company, but I have to feel slightly sorry for them. Really, what are you supposed to say that isn't trite and cliche? Senor Mas Fuerte repeatedly asked "what the hell are you boys doing" as he knew how much love and commitment Brit Boy and I once had for one another. How much, even now, I still have for him.

Anyway, my tears and gasping took a turn to the dramatic pretty quickly. As I was explaining to my friends what had just happened and the reasons Brit Boy had given I just felt something welling up inside of me. Not anger. Not frustration. Not sadness. Or perhaps it was each of these. In some sort of weird combination. But it just grew inside me until I knew I had to let it out.

"I just wanna scream!!!" I said with great conviction. "I just wanna hit something... someone!!! I just wanna make someone understand how I feel!!!" (Gee, I wonder where I got those lines) And with that I broke free from my two friends that still had their arms around me and ran off into the distance. Screaming. Loudly. I screamed for some time as I ran, but I stopped rather suddenly when I tripped. (Remember that this was at night) And fell... well, flew into a ditch. A two meter deep ditch. A two meter deep ditch filled with thorny weeds and brush.

Did I mention that all I was wearing at this point was a sarong and chanclas? Well, I lost the chanclas at some point along my run, but I was still only wearing a sarong. So here I was lying face-first in a deep ditch filled with thorny weeds and brush, with a sarong on that had not exactly stayed put while I was flying through the air with the greatest of ease. Let's just say that thorns went places you never want thorns to go.

My friends got me out of the ditch and checked me out to make sure that I was physically ok. Lucky for me Shay Butter Boy is a physician so he was able to really give me the once over. Now that I think about it, I should have had him spend a bit more time helping me with the thorns. ;-)

The Unravelling

After it was all said and done, I stated that I was in a state of denial. A state of shock. Brit Boy commented that he was surprised that I didn't see it coming. That it was really the only answer that he saw.

See, during those 4 1/2 months that he and I were apart, as I've said before, I was massive crazy busy with the legislative session. And while Brit Boy wasn't really having a grand time back in the UK, he was doing a lot of soul searching. He hadn't been happy in his career for quite some time before he came over here, and wasn't all that excited about going back into it, even though he knew it was the best possibility to find a job in the current economy. This soul searching produced some pretty radical self-realizations for him. Some self-realizations about which he was extremely happy and excited. Even though it meant he was gonna have to go back to school.

I was so excited for him. He had been struggling with this issue for so long and now he had found a path that he was excited about. So, we worked out a plan. I was already applying to grad school programs in the UK so that we could be together. Well, I want/need my masters for my career, and going to a program in the UK was really just a nice bit of icing on the cake cuz it allowed us to be together. The plan we had agreed upon was for me to spend the year in my program while he worked and took some courses for his new adventure part-time, and then once I was finished, he would go full-time.

During "the discussion" he stated that he thought me coming over so quickly after the stressful legislative session from which I had yet to really recover and starting a stressful grad school program was not an ideal situation. He was concerned that it would affect me in such a negative way that I would start down a destructive path due to the high amount of stress. He stated that he had seen some signs of what he considered self-destructive behavior and was afraid that it would get worse. And, he said, this was something he wasn't sure, due to his love for me, he could witness. For the record, I completely disagree that school would have such a negative, stressful affect on me. Sure, when I'm in school I'm really, really focused, but in a completely different manner from the work schedule I had recently experienced and which had affected me so negatively. Additionally, my recent workload had prevented me from engaging in my normal stress management activity - yoga. So, I really saw this as a non-issue.

The next day, during a follow-up discussion, I found out what I feel is the real reason he was dumping me. Not a concern for me or my well-being. Not a concern that life was going to be too stressful for me or that I would self-destruct in a manner he couldn't bear to witness. Not some uncrossable communication barrier or divide. I found out that Brit Boy had actually departed from our agreed upon plan. He departed from the plan without communicating with me. It was like he had been hiding it from me until the very end. Not only was he in discussions with universities in London to take some courses part-time, but also with another university, not in London or Leeds (the two cities in which I was applying to university) to take courses. Either part-time or full-time. Apparently he felt the need to move with some urgency on his radical self-realizations. "Here I am 35 years old and I have several years of education and training ahead of me before I can make this an actuality," he stated. "I need to get going on this." The end result was that the future he saw before him, the vision of his future he was moving toward, no longer included me.

"I'm not trying to control what you do and all, but this is what I need to do for me," he said. Of course!! How could I argue with that? Self-realization. Pursuit of self-realization. Even though it went against the plans we, together, had made for our future. The plans we had discussed together and decided upon. Pursuit of his goals in a manner he decided independent of any input from me. How could I possibly argue with that?

Actually, that's the only thing that irks me. His keeping his looking at universities outside of London or Leeds from me. Him not communicating that with me. Cuz that's really what it boils down to. Cut through all the crap of him being concerned for my well-being... cut through our challenges communicating while in the desert... and I'm left with him keeping something from me as we were supposed to be getting ready to put our plan into action. Something that completely shatters that plan. And leaves me... listening to Joni Mitchell on repeat.

The Desert

The event in Spain was only five days, after which I was scheduled to head straight back to the states, so Brit Boy and I only had a few days to work on our reacquaintance. The first few days, us working together to get our camp set up, hanging out with our friends, new and old, and just being together made it seem like the next several days were gonna be great.

I'm not sure when the shift happened but it did, and apparently I was not aware of it at the time. Brit Boy wanted to venture out from our own camp to be social with those that he normally only sees at this event. I, however, was not in the headspace to be as social. It was actually taking some effort to relate to the people in my camp that I didn't already know. And even to some of those that I did know.

Over time, this proved problematic. I mentioned a bit ago that I had yet to fully come back out of my shell after the stress of the past several months. I was not the normal, boisterous, extroverted, and gregarious person for which I am known. Brit Boy was off reconnecting with his friends for which I was very happy, cuz even though I had been through a rough number of months, he had as well. He left Austin to return to England for both visa and economic issues, and after 4 1/2 months of searching for a job, he had become a bit down. Quite a pair we were. Both trying in our own ways to reconnect with one another on a serious level, him trying to reconnect with his friends to lift his spirits, and me... well, I was unable to communicate my feelings. I had given my ascent to him going off to bond with his friends, but I was feeling more and more disconnected to both him and our camp. I was not engaged with the people around me. And when Brit Boy was in camp and trying to talk to me... I couldn't convey these thoughts and feelings. I don't know why, but it was like I was alone in a camp filled with my friends and I couldn't trust anyone with my thoughts and feelings. Not even Brit Boy.

As I said, I hadn't been aware of this shift inside me, this inability to communicate. Brit Boy seemed to be trying at some level to get through to me, but I guess I just didn't see it as such. The questions seemed simple and basic, not prodding and... not necessarily forceful, but strong and insistent. It was as if the challenges he had been facing over the past several months had worn him down, cuz in the past Brit Boy was always much more insistent when I withdrew into myself. That was always one of the things I liked so much about him... his strong personality and ability to call me on my shit.

But he didn't do that this time. It was as if he had just given up on us and was unwilling to do anything more. Had the 4 1/2 months of separation and the stress and challenges we had endured separately really created an uncrossable barrier between us? What was it that created this divide? While in England everything was great, but once we crossed the channel, it was like things slowly began to unravel.

The Mountain Pass

Majestic. That's really the only word I can use to describe the Pyrenees Mountains that separate France and Spain. If I had been unhappy about the speed at which we had driven through France, the slow going up the winding roads of the Pyrenees and the beautiful... marvelous... just gorgeous scenery really did make up for it. That, and the really cool 8km tunnel we wound up traveling through rather than driving over the top of the mountain range. (I took a number of pics inside the tunnel, but haven't received them from the person whose camera I was using).

If the French side of the Pyrenees was beautiful and majestic, the Spanish side was, well... dry and barren. It was beautiful in its own right, but such a stark contrast to where we had just been. Unfortunately, my desire for us to be able to stop somewhere along the way to the event site for some paella and sangria was thwarted by the fact that, well, there weren't really any towns or villages of any significance along our path.

Hrmph! Not happy I was. But, we were meeting a bunch of our friends that were already on site, so I set my mind on that. I tried to put aside the fact that France had been nothing but a blur, my goals for things to do in Spain were thwarted by, well, the geography of Spain and simply focus on the hugs and kisses of my European friends. I was much more disappointed than angry at the situation, but I'm not sure how well I made that distinction known to Brit Boy. However, once we got to the site (which really was in the middle of the desert in the middle of nowhere, Spain) and ran up to our friends, hugging, kissing, jumping up and down, etc, etc, everything seemed to be just fine.

The next couple of days were filled with setting up our chill-out camp, complete with music system, lounge space, and about 40 meters of multi-colored faux fur under the blazing hot desert summer sun. The first night after we got things all set up, Brit Boy and I had a fabulous night just hanging out together with our friends, staying up way too late (especially considering the traveling and set-up - which was a lot of construction, really), and waking the neighbors.

Hey, what can I say? Have you forgotten that it had been 4 1/2 months since we'd seen each other and since I'd had sex?!? Come on now.

The Road Trip

After only one week in the UK, Spain was calling. I don't really think that the regional Burning Man event to which we were heading was calling as loudly as Brit Boy seemed to think it was, but traveling through France on the way to Spain, I was really looking forward to seeing a few sights.

Well, by seeing a few sights I mean I was going to be watching beautiful old buildings, plazas, and vistas from the passenger side window as we sped through towns and villages at close to 100 km/hr. See, Brit Boy felt the need to get through France in one day in order to arrive on the event site early. So, after disembarking from the overnight ferry from Portsmouth, UK to La Havre, France we sped off.

Now, I had voiced my distaste for this plan early on, and Brit Boy was trying to alleviate my concerns that my first visit to France would be a blur by promising a stop off somewhere in the Cognac or Bordeaux regions "if we were making good time."

Suddenly I was reminded of road trips with my father, only now I was my mom and Brit Boy was my dad. "But we're making such good time..." I was a little concerned.

We seemed to make excellent time, actually. We were speeding along, centuries old churches and town squares just blurs as I was gazing out the windows. It was looking like spending some time in the Cognac region of France was going to be a possibility. Until we hit Chatellerault, France.

I think I had dozed off for a moment for the "thunk, thunk, thunk" that was coming from the back of the van brought me around with a start. We pulled over into some massive hypermarket parking lot and tried to discern the problem. We drove the van in circles and crawled alongside to listen to this new sound. Onlookers must have thought us a little crazy and I can only imagine what they were saying about us. And considering the onlookers were French...

Unable to figure things out ourselves, we wound up taking the van to a garage. Problem? Well... the brakes kinda... well... um... were falling off and thumping against the inside of the wheel on the driver's side. Lovely, right? Luckily it was very fixable and only delayed us by a few hours. What this meant, however, was that a stop off for some sightseeing was not gonna be a possibility. When we finally stopped outside of Pau, France, I was exhausted, sore, and trying not to be in a bad mood.

Brit Boy was a little upset that I was so sullen and quiet, but I told him that we knew this wasn't gonna be my favorite part of the trip and that we should just focus on the beauty of driving through the Pyrenees the next day and stopping off somewhere for paella and sangria. Mmmmmm... paella...

The Reacquaintance

Four and one-half months. Nineteen weeks, actually. That's how long it had been since Brit Boy and I had seen one another. The most recent regular legislative session was very hard on me and I can say that seeing Brit Boy once more, having him hold me in his arms was one thing that helped me make it through the long hours I had to work. These long hours, however, were having a very adverse impact on me. I drew within myself and had a rather challenging time communicating with Brit Boy. The distance was one thing... my long hours another... and my withdrawal another... But I just knew that once we were together again it would all be fine. We handled issues similar to this before and after all, I knew we were committed to making this relationship work.

Seeing him once I got off plane and made it through immigration and customs (which was a rather long and arduous task) was so wonderful. Him leaning against the railing in one of my UT t-shirts which I was unaware that he had snagged. It was glorious. The embrace and the kiss... well while not quite the image above, it was something special.

England was fantastic. We had just about a week together in the UK until we were to travel through France and Spain to a Burning Man regional event in the desert of Spain. We split the days between me finalizing my admissions interviews with the universities of Leeds and Westminster, him showing me his London (as opposed to the crap tourist places I apparently frequented in my previous tourist trips to London), and meeting his friends. My interviews - nailed them. His London - quite a bit of fun, I must say. His friends - very nice and welcoming.

Things were rushed, but we had a lot of things to accomplish before we left for Spain, but it was just really nice doing things together. I felt myself coming out of my shell into which I had withdrawn. Slowly, but I felt the comfortableness of us returning.

Oh... and we got reacquainted with how to make one another scream and moan. Oh how that boy knows how to push my buttons. But that's another story altogether.

If Plan A doesn't work?

It's official. I've submitted my applications for grad school. I've applied to a couple of graduate programmes in the UK for transportation planning and management. Actually, I submitted them a while ago, but have been too afraid to talk about it. Cuz now I'm stuck that waiting period. Do they like me? Do they think I'm a complete joke? Will they let me in to the country? Will they let me into the school? If they don't, what will I do then?

Vain? Moi?

On Friday night, I took a master “train the instructor” style fitness class for group cycling and boot camp. I’ve been teaching group cycling for a few years and have contemplated getting more information about being able to orchestrate a good boot camp workout. Well, this “master class” was being taught by a nationally renowned “fitness guru” and I gotta say that I was impressed not only with her, but her beautifully sculpted assistant. I couldn’t help but stare at him. Well, whenever I wasn’t being killed by the routine.

So, after an hour and a half of being tortured I had a decision to make. Cycle home or treat myself to a bus ride up the hills into South Austin.

I pedaled away from the gym on my way to the bus stop cuz I figured that after the ordeal I had gone through, coupled with the heat of a typical Central Texas summer day, it was prolly a good idea to give myself a break.

I got to the bus stop, leaned my bike against the bench and sat down. Just then, a shirtless guy on a bike cycled up to the intersection and stopped at the light. A particularly hot and tan shirtless guy on a bike. He looked at me. He looked at my bike leaning against the bus stop bench. He looked back at me. The light changed and he cycled away.

“Bitch,” I thought, “you don’t know what I’ve just gone through…”

Then I looked at myself. Even though I’m doing fairly well, let’s just say that I’m not yet recovered from the recent legislative session fitness-wise. Last summer I was all about cycling shirtless – you know, cuz it’s good for a nice even tan.

“Grumble, grumble, grouch… fine!” I exclaim to myself, silently cursing the hot, tan, sexy, shirtless guy on the bicycle that was now well on his way up the hills into South Austin. I get back on my bike and follow suit.

The neurosis of my vanity is not to be underestimated.

What can I say? It's been a while.

It's been a long time since I've made a real, true, and significant post. Busy... work... blah, blah, blah.

However, recently I was able to take some time off of work and actually enjoy a quickly warming Texas spring. Texas actually does Spring rather well, which is annoying since every other year I have to pretty much miss the whole thing due to work. Oh well.

So, the other day I was at a local watering hole enjoying some lovely libations with some friends. A very dear friend, let's call him WASP boy, was in town for spell and this was the first time I have seen this friend in at least a year. WASP boy and I used to live together and have been through a great many things with one another - both good and bad. When we saw one another we immediately ran to each other (so cute, right?) and embraced in a pretty damn tight bear hug. In my excitement, and this isn't too unusual with me to be honest, I lept up and wrapped my legs around his waist while we were hugging. His response? Well, he started bouncing up and down like he's fucking me in the frontal rucksack position.

I'm gonna pause for a second to remind y'all that it's been over 3 months since I've seen Brit Boy and as a result, it's been over 3 months since I've had sex. It's even gotten so bad at work that by the time I get home from the office, I have no desire to take matters into my own hands. There just hasn't been a whole lot of... um... release in my life lately. Just wanted to let y'all know where I am currently.

Where was I? Oh right, riding WASP boy in the middle of the bar. Well, we complete our hug and make our way to get our drink on. That's when I notice it. The tightness in my drawers. I squirm. I shift. I adjust. My friend looks at me and asks, "Did I give you a hard-on?" "Well," I start. "A semi..."

At that point, three of my friends walk up and, upon hearing my confession, start inspecting the bulge in my pants.

"Oh you sure do," one of them says. "Yup, there it is right there," says another as he gives it a litle tweak. Now, it takes a lot to make me blush, but damn was I a bright shade of embarassed.

More mature ramblings...

So yeah, it's been a while. I've been busier with work than I think I ever have been before. How am I handling the long hours at work and the constant low-level of stress? Well, a nice dose of mature web-surfing, of course.

awkwardboners.com/2009/04/team-boner/

What can I say? Y'all know I am a bastion of maturity.

Mayday!! Mayday!!

Fashion emergency!!! Fashion emergency!!!! I've lost track of a pair of shoes!

*deep breath* This morning as I was preparing to head to the office, I thought it'd be nice to wear a particular pair of shoes. I do to try spread the love around to all my shoes. They all deserve a little bit of Cary-time. This morning, I was thinking of wearing a nice pair of dirty-mustard colored Kenneth Cole Reaction shoes with black and brown accents and wood-grained soles. However... *gasp*

They're gone. Nowhere to be found. I scoured the house this morning as I was getting ready. My heart started to race. Where oh where could they be?!?!? I don't know if I can handle the thought of losing another pair of my babies. I cried for days after the last time this happened. It's just too much to handle.

I think I'm gonna make up flyers and post them on telephone poles to see if anyone has seen them recently. I can only hope.

Now what's the point in opening up the store if you give the goods away

It's so much worse than I thought. I told you recently about how I've been giving a free show to all the people in my building as they head out to their cars at night. Well... it gets worse.

I was over at a friend's place last night, when a good friend commented on my peep show post. What did he say, you ask? "Honey, I told you over 500 state employees can see right into your office window. I can see you clearly from my office."

Really? Not only have I been giving a free peep show to everyone in my building, but everyone in the 15-floor office building directly behind the parking garage? Now, I'm all about exhibitionism, but this is a bit much.

I... ummmm... *sigh*

Most of the time, I cycle to work. This isn't news. At my office, there's a lovely locker room for me to shower and change clothes in. I think this is fabulous. In the evenings, however, I don't go down to the locker room to change. Oh no, it's three floors below me. I simply close my office door, close the blinds, and change.

No longer.

Today, as I was preparing to give a presentation, someone pulled me aside. "Cary, I really need to tell you something."

"Sure, what's going on," I inquire.

"The blinds. Your blinds. They don't work."

"Ummm... what?!?"

"You were wearing dark underwear last night, right? And you have a white towel hanging on the back of your door."

*blank stare*

At this point, the realization hit. For the past six months I've been changing clothes in my office in the evening as everyone leaves work, walks out to the parking garage behind my building, and gets in their cars. The parking garage that my office windows face. All these people. There must be hundreds in my building. Walking out to the garage. Not realizing that they're about to get a show.

You have chairs for those too?

A friend of mine is a staffer for a member of the Texas legislature. Earlier today I stopped by his office to say hi after a meeting, and found him in discussions with the "furniture people." Apparently, his boss was unhappy with the big, comfy chair for his desk. The big leather chair with the seal of the State of Texas across the back. The one that no less than three cows had to give their hides to make. Yeah, he wasn't happy with it. It's not large enough.

So, my friend was in talking with the furniture people. "My boss is looking for one of the high-back chairs. I've seen them in other offices."

"Yeah, I can get one of those for you," the furniture lady stated. "We actually have two models of that chair. They are basically the same, only one is larger than the other."

"Well, which one would you suggest for my boss?" my friend asked.

"Well, that all depends," the furniture lady said. "How large is your member?"

I had to leave.

It's inside my head!

Music has always played a big role in my life. I played musical instruments for the better part of two decades, and have always really enjoyed having music as a backdrop to my life. There are not many times when I do not have some sort of music playing, be it at home, on the go, or at work. When I don't have music playing, I tend to have an internal stereo to take up the slack. Sometimes this is a good thing. At other times, not so much. The other day, for instance, the theme song to Dynasty was stuck in my head for hours. This, unfortunately, was not the first time this has happened.

Today started out with a relatively harmless tune, but quickly morphed into Barry Manilow's infamous "Copacabana (At the Copa)." It stuck with me for HOURS. Even as I played other music in my office, whenever I left to go to a meeting or talk to other people, it came back. Luckily, by the time I left work today, I had been able to shake it. However, on my ride home this evening, a different, more insidious song crept in.

I was riding past Lady Bird Lake in downtown Austin, and spotted the Oscar Mayer Wiener Mobile. Instantly, "I wish I was an Oscar Mayer wiener..." flooded my internal speakers. In an attempt to not be consumed by the song on my ride home, I decided to play with the lyrics a bit. This is what I came up with:

If I had an Oscar Mayer wiener
It'd mean I have a small, pencil dick
And if I had an Oscar Mayer wiener
No one would come to sit on top of it

There's just no surprising this man!

Brit Boy leaves in one week. Since he has to connect in New York City for his return trip to the UK, he decided to spend the last weekend he's in the states enjoying a weekend in the city. I was a little miffed at this cuz, due to my job, I couldn't join him. Plus, his last weekend in the states is Valentine's Day weekend. Now, for all of you that are haters of the forced, Hallmark holiday, I'm more or less in agreement. However, I haven't been dating anyone on Valentine's Day since I was in high school. I was really kinda looking forward to it. And then he sprung the trip on me.

Well, I schemed a bit and worked it out with my job to be able to be able to make a whirlwind trip to NYC and surprise him. I coordinated with our friend that he's staying with so that I could simply show up to wherever they were planning to be that Friday night. I even arranged it so that we flew out of the same airport, him to the UK, me back to Texas, with an hour of one another.

Then he went on a ski trip this week (snowboarding to be precise) and tore a ligament in his knee. When I picked him up from the airport, he stated that he was thinking about canceling the trip to NY as it would be to challenging to maneuver through NY with all the luggage he was taking back to the UK. He stated that trying to figure out all the logistics was weighing on him.

I buckled. I told him.

"Wow, I seem to mess up all of your surprises, don't I," he responded. See, this isn't the first time circumstances have changed and I've had to inform him of my plans, lest he change his plans completely and the surprise be, well, completely fucked. Actually, I think this is the third time in the last three or four months.

Curses. Oh well... he's still pleased as punch that we'll be spending the weekend in New York. Albeit with a less robust itinerary.

It's just so...

I woke up in the middle of the night last night. That, in and of itself, isn't anything unusual. I normally wake up at least once a night. Sometimes it's cuz Brit Boy comes to bed after I have fallen asleep. Sometimes the fluids I drink before going to bed result in my body waking me up so that I can relieve myself. Sometimes, and this has been happening with some regularity lately, I'm in the middle of a disturbing, vivid dream, and I wake up with a start.

Last night, however, I was awakened due to the second situation. Sometime around 3am, my body decided that it was time to get up and "use the facilities." There was one little... well not so little... problem. I was experiencing a nocturnal erection. A rather severe nocturnal erection. Urination was, well, challenging to say the least.

So, there I was, stumbling toward the bathroom, still rather groggy from having just woken up, trying to figure out how I was going to quickly relieve myself, return to bed, and get back to sleep.

I start thinking about car repairs. Tree-trimming. Longitudinal studies of student's performance on standardized tests in public schools. Nope. Nothing happening. Or, more accurately, a lot of the same thing was happening.

A few minutes go by, and the blood in my body started to move away from where it had been residing. Finally I was in the... um, position... to be able to experience relief. Once I have that all taken care of, I shuffled, as quickly as possible, back to bed. I curl up with my pillows (one of which is called Brit Boy 2 for when he's away) and hope for sleep.

Nope. I've been awake to long, and my attempts to think on things other than the situation in which I found myself had brought my mind fully online.

Damn it!

A countdown of another sort.

Ten days. Ten. One and zero. That's how much longer I have with Brit Boy before he heads back across the ocean. His visa is up and he has to head back. Also, this damn economy is creating a need for him to find a job.

So, back he goes. Of course I'm not happy about it, but these things happen. It's been a good six months, though. We've learned a lot about us as a couple. I've learned a lot about him as a person. I can only assume he's learned a lot about me, and the fact that he's still here tells me that he's: 1) extremely understanding and patient, 2) oblivious to my idiosyncracies, or 3) a glutton for punishment. I'm not gonna say which choice I'm going with.

Oh the British...

Me, struggling with proper Sanskrit spelling of Yoga pose: p-a-r-i-v-r-r- what the hell?!?

Brit Boy: Don't you wish Yoga was invented by the English?

Me: Oh, hell no!! Then it'd be all stuffy. And there's no way the Kama Sutra would've been developed.

Brit Boy: Well, aside from that...

I will not let my personal tragedy interfere with my ability to do good hair.

Stress [stres] -noun

-physiology. a specific response by the body to a stimulus, as fear or pain, that disturbs or interferes with the normal physiological equilibrium of an organism.

-physical, mental, or emotional strain or tension.

Apparently I'm stressed. This isn't really news to me, but waking up in the middle of the night with a pounding/racing heart and then not being able to return to sleep is a new development. Well... over the past couple of weeks, I guess. It's that age-old "life" thing that's getting in the way of me living my life. Funny that.

So, what does this mean? Better living through chemistry. Hopefully this will stop the middle of the night panic attacks (which is apparently what the waking up with a racing heart is). My only question is, "Can I chase the meds down with an Old Fashioned?"

What happens in Vegas doesn't always stay in Vegas.

Upon arriving in San Francisco from Las Vegas, I had a number of things I needed to attend to. Number one on the list? Go to the hospital.

See, apparently not everything that happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. After one night in Vegas, my left arm was sore, red, and swollen. It got progressively worse during our stay, until it was throbbing with pain and demanding I see a medical professional. Thing was, there's not many hospitals that are easily accessible from the casinos. So I waited until we got to San Francisco.

Well, the doctor in San Francisco was unimpressed with my reasonings for not seeking medical attention earlier. "Right, they don't have any medical care in Vegas," he said to me as I'm lying on a gurney. All I can do is give him a look.

"Ceullulitis," the doctor says flatly. You've got cellulitis." I look at him in shock. "But I don't have any fat dimples on my legs. How can I have cellulitis?"

"Not cellulite. Cellulitis," he says. "You need IV antibiotics. Actually, you're not far from being admitted to the hospital. You should've come in earlier."

So there I was. Just arrived in San Francisco, lying on a gurney in the emergency room, IV antibiotics flowing into my body. While a homeless man who seems to have lost his cane is yelling at the nurse about having to pee. And about losing his cane. And being hungry. And about losing his cane. And about being hungry. He seemed to be a broken record.

I was rather happy to have remembered my iPod and a book.