quiet night

I'm having a quiet St. Patrick's Day alone at my house. My husband, who claims his long-seated Irish heritage quite vehemently, is out whooping it up with our friends. Well, not really whooping. Last I talked to him, about thirty minutes ago, he was having a beer with two guys, trying to decide what food to order. I'm sure he'll have a black and tan in a minute and then call me to come pick him up.

Why am I not out with him, you ask? One little word, one tiny little terrible fearsome word: migraine. 

About 4:15 this afternoon, I was starting at quickbooks on my work laptop when the numbers started to blur. Not surprising-- I had been staring at them for hours, trying to find a missing two-hundred bucks, and my contacts aren't quite strong enough to magnify those tiny little curved digits to the point where I can see them without squinting. But after blinking a few times and looking away from the screen, I realized it was a blind spot, not a shifted lens.

Jerk open the lower left hand desk drawer, rummage through my huge purse looking for that one tiny little triangle-shaped pill that will save my life... shit. The last time I had a migraine I took the pill I had in my purse and never replaced it. Stuck, I felt stuck. But I took my life in my hands, got behind the wheel, and drove home blind spot and all. By the time I got home, though, it was too late. 

It's now eight forty-five and I feel alright. No real pain unless I concentrate on it. My pills leave me in a fog though, the kind of stupidity-fog that leaves me staring at a normal word like "concentrate" like it's alien, foreign, completely wrong. Did I spell that correctly? Is that second C a C and not an S? Well, forgive me if it's wrong. It's the pill typing.

I miss my husband. I ate lunch with him today, so it's not like I haven't seen him. He's my best friend. No, he's more than that. He's a part of me. We're never apart for very long and without him I don't know what to do with myself. Cooking for one? I ended up with a salad and a tomato sandwich (think burger without the burger). What do I watch on tv? I look at his empty chair for direction. Want to play a game? Oh, no. Take the dog for a walk? Kind of lonely.

Lord (or someone) help me if something happens to him.

Don't sit there thinking "oh listen to her whine," or "how pathetic that she's so codependent." He's the same with me (maybe not so poetically though), and he's called me just about every hour he's been gone. But he needs some guy time so even though I feel up to going out, I'm not. It's my St. Patty's Day gift to him.