Waiting For Santa

It seems I spend a lot of my time doing just this.

My girlfriend, Erica of Free Fringes, sent me this photo because it reminded her of me. (photo credit).

It reminds me of me too!

I have spent a lot of time in the last year sitting in my Victorian house, with a glass of fine red wine, waiting for Santa (aka Alex) to come home. I sip the wine and the deep red color of it stains my lips. It sometimes makes waiting so much more bearable.

In the last year, Alex has been on the East Coast, in the deep South, in southern California, in far northern California, in Europe, and in several other places. I think he's been gone about half of the year in total.

When Alex returns home, he brings me jewelry, baubles, bangles, and stories of his travels.

While he's gone, I dress most every day in my finery and await his return. Sometimes, I feel like my name should be Penelope. Usually, I know when to expect him, but not always. That uncertainty makes it difficult for me to have any kind of rendezvous when he's away.

Not that I intend to have illicit encounters, because I don't. But if one should occur just out of nowhere (it could happen), I could wind up being "caught" by my husband. And frankly, "caught" is not my favorite position.

Of course, I could go elsewhere for a rendezvous, but then I'd be leaving my dogs alone and I'd rather not do that.

I get into a melancholy state when my husband is away for too long. I begin to feel like someone trapped in a prison of my own making. I stop answering my phone. I stop opening the front door when someone knocks. I peer out the window through the lace curtain and watch people go by. Then I make up stories in my head about who they are and where they are going.

I need to stop "waiting" and start "living".