What a Dude Goes Through When His Lady Leaves For a Week...

NOTE: This really only applies to dudes who are actually IN happy and fufilling relationships. Those that are not have a whole different set of feelings. I'm thankful that's not me. The Angel recently went away for a week.

This was good. Or so I thought. I’m a bit of a paradox, as most of us our in some manner. I genuinely adore crowds and the communal happenstance of close friends. I always have. Yet, in quite the quizzical manner, I often prefer to be totally alone with nothing but the hum of refridgerated silence. You might assume I have a problem with intimacy, as if my emotions are closed off from all those around me. But that couldn’t be farther from the truth, as I often go to great lengths to opening myself up to the depths of another person.

Perhaps my yearning for solitary is derived from the years spent writing words on blank pages that no one will ever see. If nothing else, a writer’s life is conducive to loneliness. There has been numerous occasions where I crack the code of some difficult storytelling element, only to turn and share it with no one but an empty room… unless of course you count the various action figures lining my walls.

Wow, that sounded far weirder than I thought. Regardless, below is a brief account of some of the things dudes do when their significant other goes away…

First and foremost, you relish that first day in a quiet house. The Angel, I, and her sister all work primarily from home. There is no quiet. There is no ‘alone time’. We have to announce when we need the bathroom for an extended period of time. It can be awkward.

The first day The Angel was gone was met with unadulterated excitement. You clap your hands, rub them greedily like a fly, and make buffoonish comments about ‘cats being away and mice playing’.

Immediately, you send texts to fellow male friends that are the opposite of subtle. You want to drink, and there is no polite or adult way of putting it. It’s not a question; it’s a call to arms. Yes, I’m aware of how this totally opposes this previous written blog.

An hour later, the idea of watching Sportscenter with a bottle of wine is far more appealing than actually getting up and going out. Believe it or not, you relish watching Pirates/Astros highlights, even though you could not care less about either the Astros or the Pirates.

Over the next few days, your demeanor changes and you realize how lost you are without the one person you spent virtually every day with for six years.

You notice sounds in the house you don’t completely understand. They’re totally foreign, strange, and leave you wondering if someone is lurking outside. You think about aliens.

You eat Roman noodles for the first time since college. Surprisingly, they still hold up. Especially those with chicken in the title…

You feel this odd wave of emotion that can only be described as slightly melancholy. You are alone, and you realize you miss your lady. You have never missed a lady like this. It is uncomfortable.

You get angry at feeling this way, and immediately vow that tonight you will go out with the boys and drink stupid amounts of alcohol just to prove you are a man.

You realize that this is a silly idea and instead watch more Sportscenter. You now know more useless facts about LeBron and the Bulls that you start forming opinions on ‘rotations’ and whether or not the afternoon Sportscenter team is stronger than their evening counterparts. For the first time, you realize Kyle Korver looks like a young Tom Cruise with a Bieber haircut and a nasty long-range jumper.

You start using shampoo as bodywash.

You liked Mumford & Sons before. Now you can’t stop listening to them. You think their words were meant specifically for you in this moment.

You buy a bottle of vodka after work, only to have one drink and pass out reading Grant Morrison’s Batman and Robin: Batman Reborn. You still don’t get the Grant Morrison appeal, and you think you’re dumber for not.

One late night surfing session on the internet and it becomes crystal clear that kids are seeing things you didn’t even know existed at their age. You start to worry about your brother’s kids. The kids of your friends. The kids of your boss. The kids you don’t have.

Watching Waiting for Superman doesn’t help.

You practically say a prayer to God when the Playstation Network comes back up. You wonder if he’s online as well and whether he has acquired tier 2 armor in DCU Online or if it’s just you that sucks.

You go to collectible shows and buy nothing. There’s no explanation for this other than that your lady is not there to sheepishly nod her head when you want to buy the 12-inch Heath Ledger doll with Gotham PD prison diorama for roughly $250.


Too much fast food.

You have man-dates, which is what your lady calls it when you go to the movies or have lunch with a friend. The first time she said this, it was funny. Now, you want to take a lightsaber and slice off her arm if she uses that word again.

You realize you’re far more like Meatloaf than you’d like to admit.

The worse part of that revelation is that you can’t share in your Celebrity Apprentice anecdotes and opinions because no one is there to share it with.

The cat throws up a black sludge and you realize you’ll never be a good father.

Contrary to popular belief, the house isn’t messier because of her absence. In fact, it’s cleaner than usual; mostly on account of both your boredom and the need to make sure you don’t screw this up.

You have a two minute conversation with the mailman about the local town election. You do not know who won, who lost, or who the candidates were. When he leaves, you ponder looking up some information to extend the conversation the next day.

You hate Pirates/Astros highlights.

You write a blog being open and honest about your feelings in this time, and while doing so you think unknown readers are going to get the wrong idea about you. They’re going to think you’re weak. Emotional. Pathetic.

You contemplate taking jiu-jitso classes. You snap at a bigger male dude that cuts you off on the freeway and you promise to “rip their fucking head off.” When he leaves, you wish your readers saw that moment so they’d know these words off loneliness are far more surprising than they realize.

You think you’re an idiot. And not just because of your inability to grasp Grant Morrison’s appeal.

You make plans to drink tomorrow night after softball.

You curse the Angel and her secret powers.

You re-read your blog and can’t fathom why you would ever use the word ‘adore’.

You can’t wait for softball. Or the post-game drinking. By the time your hangover wears off late Wednesday evening, the Angel will be there and you’ll feel whole again.

You realize that's best of all, and so you throw your arms up and around your old friend melancholy, for you know he is here for all the right reasons. And he's only staying a little while...