Right before our lunch date, we got "The Call" on the cell phone. Bill is to get on a plane tomorrow morning and head for the Orient. He wanted to go sooner than later, and I guess he got his wish. Now all he has to do is go to work and hope that he will be relieved in early December for daughter Juli's wedding in Seattle on the 21st.
All through lunch, he was fussing and worrying. Where was the ship? What problems are awaiting him? Why is the Chief Engineer not coming back? Finally at Home Depot, I had to threaten to smack him with a roll of fiberglass screening. What's the sense of worrying, when you have no control over anything anyway? (Last year sure taught me that one, big time)!
We zipped through his eye appointment, picked out new glasses (that I will have to send to his FPO address), and came on home to do laundry, clean up tools, finish the gutter project, do the haircut that we didn't get to this morning, and settle down to the hardcore serious "Night-Before-Leaving Worrying," complemented by "Throwing-Clothes-Frantically-Into-A-Seabag."
Sigh. We've been doing this for 20+ years, so I know of what I speak. My beloved is inertial, in the pure physical science sense: When he is at rest, he tends to stay at rest. When The Call comes, motion is introduced and the activity begins in hyper-speed continuing until he gets on the plane, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, and bags over-stuffed, ready to explode when TSA opens them to inspect (his tickets are always one-way, so he always gets the full screening).
All I have to do is get through the next twelve hours without yelling at him to stop buzzing around and fretting. It wouldn't do any good anyway.
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