Damn gypsy curses again!

Last night, I fixed a lovely dinner of lomo, tortilla (that's a Spanish-style omelette, mind you, not anything corn-based), and salad for monshu and me. Then, out of the blue, he mentioned apartment-hunting and I had such an attack of anxiety that I could hardly eat any of it.

Supposedly, we were to spend this summer checking out open houses and the like in the hopes of buying a larger place together next year. In actual practice, we've done nothing of the sort. There are all kinds of excuses the two of us could come up with if pressed, but I took it all as prima facie evidence that we were both a little dubious about the project. After all, he only consented to go ahead with this in the spring when I pressured him and after he agreed so readily that it made me a little dizzy, I immediatly began having second thoughts myself. It's tough to say exactly about what; any reasoned objection I could make could easily be counter-argued. Some of the anxiety is dread of home buying and all that it entails (moreso since both our places would have to be sold), but a lot of it is ascribable only to vaguer uncertainties about the future.

None of my relationships has ever been subject to any kind of plan. I went ahead with what felt right at the time, trying as hard as I could not to have definite ideas about what would happen, since they'd only come undone one way or another. As of next year, this will officially count as the longest LTR monshu's ever been in (it already is for me) and we'll be in uncharted waters. If we had pushed ahead earlier, there'd've been a scary sort of exhilaration to balance out the nameless dread. But we were prudent and didn't rush things and I feel like the compensation for that should be a calm confidence that the next step is desirable and logical almost to the point of inevitability. But instead it feels like another big risk with lots of potential for messy disaster. What the hell?

Watching the watchers

After a beautifully autumnal weekend, the world has relapsed into heat and humidity. When I first noticed it happening yesterday evening as the storm blew through, I was bummed. After a morning in my workspace, currently nicknamed "The Meat Locker" (ever since they did some duct work a few weeks ago, it's been so cold even I notice it), I was positively looking forward to it. So much so I actually sought out outdoor seating.

This put me squarely in front of Dixie Kitchen, where I had some so-so fried chicken while discovering the answer to a question that's bugged me all year: Where do the downtown construction workers eat their lunch? Apparently, at least a half dozen of them do it on the second floor of the emerging structure opposite, where they can ogle the traffic on one of the busier sidewalks. This neatly removes any moral qualms I might have about taking up a seat below and, well, ogling them.