Getting up early, Bomb Girls and what-not

Ever since Will, my youngest left home, Don and I have been staying up at night and waking up later and later.  We went from heading upstairs around 9:30 - 10 PM to sometimes not getting to bed until 11:30 - 12:30.  That meant that we were getting up later and later.  Not such a big deal in the summer because the days are so long and it doesn’t get truly dark until 10ish.

But now in the winter, it starts getting dark by 3:30 and once it’s dark, it’s much harder to want to leave the house to do anything unless that something is going out to eat. So, the days were zooming by and there was this feeling of not accomplishing as much as one could, of not grabbing life by the balls.  But rather like life had me by the scruff of my nightgown and my toes were trailing on the ground behind me.

It had to stop.

Don and I started the New Year with good intentions. He diligently set the alarm for 7 AM and when it went off, we’d leap from the bed, feeling virtuous.  For the next two weeks, we congratulated ourselves heartily on gobbling up each moment of daylight, not squandering it sleeping.

Um… but by the third week, things started to slide… and slide… and slide.

Today, I had an appointment at 9AM.  Someone was coming over to the house.  When I agreed to the time we were rising early, it was no big deal. 

Well, when the alarm went off at 8 o’clock this morning, I was not amused.  Staggered out of bed, took a bath, got dressed, ate a banana and waited.  At 9:30 I figured, I must have made a mistake with the time.  Looked up the old email and sure enough, it was 10:30 that she was coming over. 

What to do with that freed up hour. 

Hence, the blog to you.

Don’t really have a ton to write about.  Monday, Monday, tomorrow’s Tuesday and then the next day is… ulp… Wednesday!  And we all know what happens on Wednesday.

Around 7:50 PM Don heads downstairs to the TV in the basement, turns the TV on to Global and watches Bomb Girls at 8 o’clock sharp.  While I sit upstairs, try not to think about it.  Try to keep myself busy.  Try not to hear the noise that seeps under the crack in the door at the head of the basement stairs.  Try not to worry that he’s might come up stairs and look at me, trying to mask the pity in his face, like okay, he thought the show was good last week, but this week…?

It’s weird, to have him watch my stuff.  When we first started dating he hadn’t watched my stuff, and that was a bonus, for him to be in love with me, not the person he imagined me to be, because that person up there on the screen, has full-time hair and make-up people and wardrobe making them look as good as humanly possible.  There is no way a regular person could compete.  Wanted me to be enough.  Me, with my messy hair, no make-up and lousy fashion sense.

And I was.  For 10 1/2 years I have been enough. 

I let him come to Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf.  He didn’t fall out of love with me.  I even had to kiss two people in that play and still he loved me.

So, when Bomb Girls started airing, I agreed to let him watch that as well. 

So, he is watching it and I spend Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday getting a little bit anxious.  Not 100% anxious all the time.  Monday, mild anxiety, like right now, a slight clenching in my gut, nothing major, nothing I can’t manage, and it’s probably because I’m thinking about it.  For most of today, I won’t.  Tuesday will be sort of like today, not such a big deal.  By noon on Wednesday, I start feeling a little vulnerable, a little small, unsure.  By the time he goes downstairs I’ll be acting calm, like it’s no big deal, but my stomach will be in knots and I’ll be slightly clammy under my clothes.

I am hoping this Wednesday night, 9PM when he tromps back up the stairs, that he’ll hold me in his arms and tell me how proud he is and what a good job I did and how he doesn’t mind at all what is happening with my character Lorna and Marco and Bob.  That he’s okay with it, and understands that that is Lorna and I am Meg and there is a difference, even though, sometimes it might feel like there isn’t.  That it is him I love.  Him.  Don.

Posted by Meg Tilly on Monday, January 23, 2012 in Chewing the Fat