29/11/2017-30/11/2017

29/11/2017

I contemplated having some whiskey before breakfast this morning. I know this is not good. I do. And I don’t really care. Genevieve has another event later today, and she invited me to it, so I went shopping. My wardrobe has been…mediocre for many years now. It was a matter of practicality, really. No matter how charismatic I believe myself to be, I cannot walk into a meeting with investors and shareholders dressed like a peacock no matter how much I would love to. So it was mostly suits, turtlenecks, button downs, slacks and appropriate jeans. When I looked at my clothes, I felt myself wondering a strange question. “How have you been living these past few years?” It felt like a violent question. One that triggered the urge to snatch all my suits off their hangers and burn them in the patio. But that’s not what I needed to do. So I went shopping.

I wondered—for a long time—what I would even enjoy. Nothing was inspiring when I walked in the mall. (I went to the mall like a teenager. I was about to laugh at myself until I remembered that that was probably the last time I went browsing for clothes that fit my style. I suppose a mall is very fitting) Nothing felt interesting. Nothing pulled me towards it, so I got a milkshake instead. Maybe my attempts were halfhearted already, because I didn’t feel nearly as disappointed at not finding anything for this event. I suppose I felt more or less safe. if I found something, that was well and good, and if I didn't, then my suits would do.
But then I found this tiny shop. It didn’t have anyone in it, but the clothes--the pieces--at its window. Gorgeous. Partly elegant, partly bold. Wide leg pants with pleats at the side, flowing shirts with a crisp bow at the neck and loose sleeves that tightened at the forearm. This was it. The shop owner was lovely. Well, more than lovely actually. Quite vigorous and passionate. They said they knew exactly what they wanted to see me in. I will admit, I was flattered, but I was there for an outfit for today. 

And then they pulled out the most gorgeous golden pair of pants. I could not look away. They were so bold. Too bold. They looked like a challenge, and my god did I want this challenge. I found myself almost grinning in anticipation. I hope Genevieve won’t mind if I show up in those.

—

The party was excellent. Drank a little too much champagne but whatever it’s okay. Came back later than I thought, but what can I say, it was that much fun. When I was younger, I would never be nervous to wear anything. If you gave me a full suit of gold, I’d wear it and make it look good. Showstopper, that kid. Well I still have it. I wish I took a picture of Genevieve’s face. She almost gasped when she saw the damn pants. She wants to know where I got them. The entire outfit, really, since my shirt may have been a simple white one but the cut was excellent. I forgot how having a good outfit can make you feel at parties. The conversations were fun, meeting new people was actually exciting. That was probably because these were not people I would be forming connections with in the hopes of gaining something. Business connections, investment, you name it. It wasn’t that. God… it was a great time. Well, it was, and now I’m in this house I’m supposed to call a home, smoking my third cigarette while sitting beside my marigolds (they’ve already bloomed, they were beautiful) wishing the night didn’t have to end. God. I need to go to sleep. Sleep, then wake up and head to the gym.

30/11/2017

Right, I’m sober now, so I can write about last night properly.

He came home.

it was late, almost one o’clock I believe. I’d already done everything. Shed my outfit, showered, washed my face, put my hair up in my bonnet. He came in and I think we were both surprised to see each other. Me more than him. I think I laughed out loud without thinking, sighed, then lay back into bed. He asked where I’d been, probably because I left my sparkly golden pants on the floor by the door. In all fairness, I really was not expecting him back here. If I knew he was going to come back home, I would have put them elsewhere since they’re a tripping hazard. I told him; at a friend’s party. I asked where he’d been. He sighed, a little exasperated, a little irritated. And I asked him again where he’d been. He asked me if I was drunk. Probably because I giggled when I asked him. I was. Well, not drunk per se, just…agreeable to the general effects of alcohol. I said I didn’t know, and that he should answer my question. He said I knew where he was. I said I didn’t. Work. Work was where he was. Work was where he always was and always would be. Work work work. I asked him if he knew how to have fun, since all he knew was work. He asked what fun was. If it was shiny parties and drinking and talking to people for hours on end. No, fun is many things. So, was fun working twelve hours every day in his office for him? “Yes.” That’s what he said. And I stared at him for a long time. Watched him take his coat off. Sit down, put his cane aside and take his socks off.

“Do I feature anywhere in this fun that you have?”

I suppose that’s the problem with alcohol. Loosens lips and hearts and convictions. He looked at me like he’d kicked a puppy, and I think I despised that look the most. So I rolled over and shut my eyes. I would have had to roll over again when he finally came to bed because the path to the bathroom is on my side. I didn’t get to do that, I fell asleep. Last thing I remember was the shower running.

But I did wake up in the morning, and he was cuddled as close as he could be to me. Curled up, facing me, head buried under the blankets. I don’t know why, but seeing him made my eyes sting. I was angry at him, disappointed with him, hurt by him. But what am I to do? Even when I feel all those things, it’s in moments like this that I must accept that above them all, I love him. Much more than I could ever admit, more than I can stomach. So, even though I was awake and would not go back to sleep, I got back in bed, gathered him in my arms, and buried my face in his hair. I know I woke him when I did, because I felt his hand rest on my side. I hope he went back to sleep, at least for a little while longer.

So now I’m making breakfast, sipping on some whiskey and writing in this damn diary in-between flipping pancakes because I asked him if there was anything he wanted to eat, and he said pancakes even though he doesn’t eat anything in the morning. I just have to figure it out. Figure out how to be alright with the fact that there is something that is keeping my husband from loving me the way I know he can, the way I’m sure he wants to. Figure out how to be okay with the fact that I now approach the time we spend together cautiously, like I am already protecting myself because at any moment, he will tell me that he needs to go to the office, or he will become difficult to engage with. What am I to do, Viktor? What will you have me do? If you just told me, I would. You know I would. I would do anything for you. And I am beginning to hate myself for that.

Can't lie that last line... hit me like a ton of bricks. Yikes. Anyway read the next entry here