maybe a bright sandy beach is going to bring you back.

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13 april 1997

3:29 p.m.

Dear diary, It looks like Derek won't be able to weasel out of his conference next month. Turns out it's actually an annual thing, and he's been going as the department rep for as long as he's been working there. "You didn't go last year," I sniffed. He blinked and cocked his head. "Well, actually, yes I did." It was a weird moment, realizing I haven't yet known him for a year. Only a few days short of ten months, actually. It sure feels like longer. And I mean that in a good way. So many things set him apart from the last... well, good many boyfriends I've had. And some things seem almost counterintuitive. By and large, it's the longest I've been with a guy. It's just that I just don't realize it. I've been in three-month relationships in which I gleefully counted the days we were together, if not the hours. Now, it doesn't really matter much. I've been in shorter relationships that have moved much, much faster, but I've never felt... stagnant or impatient. (Well, barring... chemical flare-ups.) I've been in relationships in which we'd spent much more time together -- once (and only once) quite literally all our time together. Yet with Derek, I've never felt the "need for space" (a phrase I've been told is practically synonymous with my name in some circles), nor do I climb the walls if I don't see him for a few days. Well, rarely. Truth be told, except for the odd lunch or dinner, I really only get to see him once a week. But I really don't feel away from him, even when I am. If we really want to see eachother, we can. I like that. And that's probably why I don't like his going. He won't exactly be an eight-minute drive away. Procrastination will kill you, eventually. Although it's insane to do laundry on a Sunday 'round here, I've got no choice. I think if I wait a day longer to start excavating the pile of laundry in the closet, its density will spontaneously generate a black hole. It looks like five, maybe six loads. At least I'm pretty sure I've got enough quarters... There is an art to laundry. Don't let anyone tell you different. Even in separating. Larger loads mean fewer washes, but that also means they'll need to spend more time in the dryer. So, you've got to factor in the number of quarters you've accumulated, how much of each "laundry class" you've got to clean, the weight of the clothes (jeans are the trickiest), and what time you'd like to get to bed. And then, of course, there are the quirks of each machine -- particularly dryers, which are finicky little bastards. Thus, for every apartment I've lived in, I've had to recalculate all of the above. I often end up with nothing but a Canadian penny and some lint in my dedicated quarter cow, but I always get it done. If UH had a Laundry Studies program, I'd be a tenured professor already. Tonight is Greg's performance at St. Andrews, and -- just like last semester -- although I wasn't exactly asked to come, I'll take the one-line e-mail informing me of the specifics as the closest thing to an invitation I'll ever get. I don't know what pieces they're going to be doing, and frankly, I don't care. So long as they throw in the pipe organ, I'll be satisfied. (I know... I should probably see a psychiatrist for my organ fixation.) Hopefully, he'll stick around afterward this time so I can give him a lei. Too bad I finally threw away the one I bought for the Fall concert (it had been hanging on my window handle until about a month ago). I think a dead lei would be just his style.