I do not want to be here, Sam-I-Am. 

I had a fabulous weekend.  Starting Thursday, I had a much needed bonding evening with the girls over a margarita before heading home.  Friday brought a night out with more folks from work, soothing some of those rough edges that exist between us on any normal day.  Saturday was my “birthday” of sorts…Mr. W took me on a dinner cruise on the Potomac, followed by a romantic evening in a fancy hotel…The Mandarin Oriental.  Beautiful.  It was a wonderful evening all around.  Sunday, we headed home and opted for dinner out and a movie with the older kids:  Inception.  Really good movie.  So why am I crying in the ladies room?

Well, Monday was strained.  Sunday’s dinner, and probably the mass quantities of alcohol I consumed from Thursday onward, left my belly a little “unhappy.”  It’s actually still a little unhappy.  So I stayed home, with Mr. W (his every-other-Monday off) and the two older kids.  We ran errands, went to lunch, discovered Mr. W has high cholesterol and a fatty liver, and began getting “short” around 4 or 5 pm.  But we maintained.  The kids went back to their mom’s, so I thought maybe this would be an opportunity (empty house) to continue the wonderfully frisky trend that the weekend prompted.  No such luck…we ended up going to bed mad, although I’m not sure what about, and waking up even worse.  Long story short, the car ride to work this morning had us both shouting, me in tears, and us splitting up…sorta…I think. 

But it’s not that simple.  Our lives are so intertwined that we can’t just “break up.”  We are dependant on each other in every facet of life.  We share everything, and I really do mean everything.  We have kids to think about.  We have a 2 year lease on a house neither of us can afford alone.  We share bills, food, childcare, everything.  Well, everything, it seems, except what’s important. 

We fight, a lot.  We don’t communicate.  Most days we would probably both agree we don’t know each other at all.  So why are we together?  Well, there’s love.  I do love my Mr. W.  With all my heart and should, I love him.  I wouldn’t have let myself get so tied up if I didn’t.  He wouldn’t be my home if I didn’t.  (For as long as I can remember, “home” was my parents’ home…until Mr. W.  I would get ridiculously home sick within months of visiting, and would visit at least twice a year, every year, since I left in 1999.  But now, when I think of “home,” I think of him.)  But love doesn’t seem to be enough.

I asked him this morning if he wanted to be done.  He said yes.  I said I was going to leave.  He didn’t say no.  I told him I loved him.  He stayed quiet.  And then I got hit by a bus:

Him: You must have known this was coming. 

Me: What? Why?

Him: Well, why haven’t you sent out the invitations to the wedding yet?  You must have known this was coming since you haven’t sent them out.

Me: (granted, in hysterics)  WHAT?  I haven’t sent them because you are supposed to send them 6 weeks before the wedding.  If you don’t want to marry me, why didn’t you just tell me.  If you don’t love me, why don’t you just tell me.  If you don’t want this anymore, WHY DIDN’T YOU JUST TELL ME?! 

Him: Oh.

Somehow that said it all.  He was expecting this?  He was waiting for this?  He had an inkling this was going to happen?  Why not say something?  WTF?  Was he just waiting for me to?  I can’t even begin to understand this.  “Hey, there’s a bus coming, but she probably knows that, so I’ll just watch while it runs her down.”  Fan-fucking-tastic.  Obviously, if you read my blog, you know I’ve got baggage.  You know I’m nuts.  You know I’m a bitch and raving lunatic at times.  Apparently he does not.  Apparently he thought I was a Stepford.  Apparently all the apologies in the world will never be enough.  Apparently my insanity has driven another one away.  2 years 6 months.  Yep, that’s about right.  So what the hell do I do now?  I can’t leave.  I can’t stay.  Money is lost, and will continue to be.  I’m lost, and will continue to be.  So what happens now?  What happens when I get home?  What happens when he gets home?  What happens tomorrow?  I can’t concentrate.  I can’t think.  I can’t function.

And crying alone in the ladies room is just so damned cliche!

This may be my last at-work written blog post for awhile, well at least this will be the last week I’m able to blog at work.  Not that I’ve been writing much lately anyway, but…

I’ve been ridiculously busy, with the ever impending wedding and the total lack of preparation on my part, with my multiple tasks with “yesterday,” or completely non-existent, deadlines, with a house that, 2 months after we moved in, is still in no way, shape, or form organized…or even completely unpacked, and with a new, short-ish notice transfer to a different department that I still haven’t gotten a straight answer on when it’s actually supposed to happen. 

While I am totally stoked about the transfer (it gives me multiple opportunities for learning new things, expanding my skill set, and therefore resume, and a promise of a pretty decent raise in the nearrrrrrr-ish future), I am not totally stoked about my office-mates’ reactions to my move.  Not everyone, mind you.  My actual friends are truly happy for me.  They share at least somewhat in my excitement, and at the very least support me in this whole thing.  My actual friends are, as always, wonderful.  But then there are those who I thought were my friends.  Silly me! 

Friend.  How do you define it?   Dictionary.com says:

Well, in regards to my current work-mates, 1 and 2 just go out the door.  3 is iffy on any given day.  4 is passable, and 5, well, let’s just leave 5 out of this.  In all honesty, I wouldn’t have previously called all of my work-mates “friends,” otherwise why would I refer to them as “work-mates?”  But I did previously call many of them friends, and those are the ones whose recent attitude, reaction, whatever is bothering me the most.  Are we really that far removed?  Is this comraderie that we share really that shallow?  Or is it simply petty immaturity?  Or maybe I’m being ridiculously oversensitive…NO!  That’s not even a possibility! 

Let me explain.  On-again-off-again friendships around here happen often.  Whatever.  It’s the nature of the beast.  But suddenly, coincidentally coinciding directly with the news of my move, I’m getting a severe case of the cold shoulders everywhere I turn.  There is no polite conversation.  There is no “how was your weekend.”  There isn’t even eye contact.  And I swear whenever I walk into a room, out to the smoke pit, towards an area where any group or individual is hovering, said group or individual scatters at my presence.  What the F is that about?  Really?  I’m going to a different office so now you have NOTHING to say to me?  We can’t be pseudo-friends?  You can’t even manage a polite “hello”?  I give up.

I’ve decided I’m past the point of caring…but really I’m not.  Not even a little.  It hurts, people.  These are people I’ve spend the most time with over the last 3 or so years.  These are the people I’ve had actual conversations with on a daily basis (til now).  Most of these people I thought I could depend on in a pinch, call if I was in trouble, reach out to for help…but yeah, apparently not so much.  I don’t make friends easily.  I don’t open up often.  I don’t trust many.  And for anyone that I consider a friend or that I open up to or trust, even a little, to suddenly, inexplicably just cut off all interaction…it feels like a punch to the gut.  And there are multiples of them. 

Ah, well…this too shall pass, right?  Moving on and moving up and all that other happy horse-shit.  No biggie.  I’m a big girl and I’ve lived through much worse in  my life than a few hurt feelings.  Hmmm…maybe there’s still time to save some money on the headcount for the wedding….