Two Spring Pins Shy of a Dive Hat...

You know, Kris and I had three blissful years of seeing each other every day before he decided we had to move to Louisiana so that he could try his hand at this diving career (I will cash in on THAT favor when the time is right). I am an independent woman, so it’s not like I can’t handle the time alone in principle. The problem is, like most women, I worry.

I don’t mean about Kris specifically – that much is implied – I mean I worry about everything: I worry about my figure; I worry about the quality of the water that comes out of my tap; I worry that the dog’s heartbeat might be a little off this week; I worry that a tornado will hit my house; I worry that, although Kris has been offshore for nearly three months, I could unknowingly be pregnant and now the baby will be deformed since I have been out drinking every weekend and a doctor will tell me that I am a bad person. I can’t help it: if you have a uterus, you have a license to worry about anything and everything at any given moment. And Kris is my voice of reason; the person who smiles while I show him a new beauty mark (alright, they’re moles) and ask him if he thinks I might have cancer.

The reason I mentioned the three years Kris and I actually spent together is to point out that they were nothing but a big tease. They were like a drug: the dealer gives you the first one for free and then he jacks up the price. Now I’m addicted to Kris’ ability to keep me grounded and he’s never around. Creative people should not be left alone with their imaginations.

I only have a weak solution: When I have one of my moments of female insanity, I try to hear Kris’ voice in my head telling me that I am overreacting. Sometimes that is enough. Sometimes I find another mole…