Sharing about going places

Writing is a refuge. I come here whenever I need some time away to process and decompress. I come here when there's a problem I need to solve.

My life alarm clock is about to go off, but I'm already awake, dreading the baleful sound of the buzzer. Anticipating the sound, I can already hear it, but there doesn't seem to be an effective snooze. I'll go make coffee and try to get ready. Ready for what, however, is unknown.

I'm approaching six months of perpetual four-day weekends with one goal: marathon season. I need a few more goals and one big goal. I could fail at a new pursuit or feel sorry for myself. I could do some research, or read a lot, or find out new ways to be cheap. I am coming to terms with not knowing, freeing and scary at the same time, coming to terms with the inescapable pressures of my own responsibility. For the time being, though, a list will suffice:

Save money

Run, run, run

Keep it clean

Plan for five years

Get rid of car

Be more loving than ever

Catch up on reading

So far, it's a scratch at the surface, but it's a start. I've already proven that I can do anything. It's time to hit the ground running.

Wa-mbulence alert: I'm coming to remember/understand/dislike that I was constantly encouraged to be average and succeed at anything un-extraordinary, not to draw attention, to have reasonable dreams. This has been a major impediment, and for as easy as it would be to hide behind it, it will be quite difficult to overcome it. This is a challenge I'm willing to confront.

Sharing a bed

I'm 25 and I can probably, if I think hard enough, remember each and every instance in which I've shared a bed in my adult life. These situations are memorable for a specific series of reasons: a) the beds were usually shared after sex, b) I have never lived with a partner, c) the instance inevitably causes an interruption in my sleep cycle, and d) ergo sharing a bed is not consistent with my comfort level.

I have shared a bed with two people in the last two weeks. Jessica, with whom I've shared a spare few beds, napped with me briefly on Wednesday afternoon. She talks in her sleep, wants to be close, and is hot - preferring lots of blankets. The next night I shared a bed with my new fuckbuddy. He's little. The action is very intense. We started curled up together, naked, without blankets. After a while, we pulled some blankets up. I didn't sleep well because my arms kept falling asleep, either because I was folded up on them, or he was. Luckily, I had to hit the gym at 6:30, so we didn't share the bed for too long. The second night we shared a bed, last night, he fell asleep sort of under me, and I was able to turn over and find my own sleepspace. It turns out he sleeps very hard, and I can rub my morning boner all over him and he won't budge. It turned out to be ideal, although he preferred to sleep for a long time, and I had time to feed the cat, fix a huge breakfast, eat the breakfast, smoke, blog, read blogs, and finish a lot of coffee before I went into the bedroom and woke him up (in a very kind way). I did this both times: I left the bed, did my own thing, my new morning thing, then went back to bed to help him get up.

I can't imagine a life like this. The life where a man is in my bed. He might wake me up, of I might wake him up, but he's always there. I understand it to be realistic: if I wanted to live in San Francisco or New York and have a great partner (both life goals, in the works), there's no way we could have separate beds without infidelity. I once often stated that I desire a man that gets down to business then retreats to the other side of the bed, but I'm coming to understand that that man is more likely to retreat into fond memories of a certain night spent. The man that wants the other side of the bed is the man that wants to be alone. This man, he's like me, except I don't want to be this man. Perhaps I'm not not better off alone.