Mind Erased

The next day the wrath of the Mind Eraser takes hold of my head and places it firmly in a vice. I get myself upright ever so briefly, but long enough to find the Aleve, pry the childproof lid off, and swallow a few too many with a teensy cup of water before gagging and putting myself back into a reclining position.

I check my phone.

Yes, I had sent a drunken text to Scott. And one to Craig. 

The one to Scott was tame.  The one to Craig was not.

I should never drink and text. Ever. My phone should be programmed to shut down when my blood-alcohol content reaches a certain threshold.

Ding!  I get a Happy St. Pat's message from Craig.  I return the sentiment with a similar one and note that there is not enough hair on any dog to cure what ails me today. There would be a lot of bald dogs in the neighborhood today.

He suggests a Western Omelet and a Gin and Tonic just the same. Can't hurt.

I tell him that I had planned on a Western Omelet, and that the Bombay is conveniently already out on the counter.  Really, all that is missing is the lime, but I don't have the dexterity to use a knife at the moment.

I rest my eyes and wonder where the cats are. I get a text. I smile knowing it is from Craig.

Nope. Scott. Damn my drunk texting.  I need to make some numbers harder to find.

He is very nice, wants to talk.  Something happened and he needs a friend. I take a deep breath and tell him it's okay to call.

And when the phone rings I realize it is the first time I've heard his live voice in ages.

We have a nice conversation -- well, as nice as it can be when one of you is morbidly hungover and the other of you has had something hideous and freakish happen to you   (But that is not my story to tell, so I won't. Scott may want to start his own blog, however...) We chat amiably though it is hard not to fall into the same habits of endearing names and such. I have to concentrate and it makes my head throb to think that hard. It is not a long conversation but it is a step toward actual normal friendship. Friends talk on the phone. 

But I get a text while we're talking and I know it is Craig. I mean, there is a possibility that it is Hil or Pat sending me a cute picture of their dog, but in all likelihood, it is Craig.

And I feel guilty. Like I am cheating in some way.

And I am not. Even in the remotest sense. But I am not sure Craig or any other man would understand me lying in bed having a very personal conversation with a man I'd once planned to marry and who everyone knew I was madly in love with not long ago. Especially while we are texting ourselves.

I am distracted as I get off the phone and immediately look at the text. It is from Craig. I feel worse now. So I cheerfully reply and mention that if I am ever upright long enough, I will go for my long walk in the State Park. He enjoys my check ins and pictures on FB.  And maybe THEN have the G&T.  He says I should probably abstain until after the threat of falling into the stream has passed. 

But still, I feel rotten about texting with one man and talking to another.  My God I sometimes have the sensibilities of a nun. 

I make the omelet and get my running gear on.  Not that I run, mind you. I walk. I just want to look good while I am running. 

And while my omelet is cooking. I erase the entire text conversation with Scott. Nothing on the record. Nothing to remind me. Nothing to make me wonder what in Hell I am doing with my life.