Kate and I were on the phone this morning. It's the best start-of-the-day we can share 2,000 miles apart, and that's the hardest part of the famed long distance relationship gig. There aren't the cups of coffee in pajamas while getting ready for work. There is no breakfast in bed. There isn't even morning breath. Just a phone call. But when you know that the end of that dance is coming soon, even cell phone bills take on an air of romance. Kate moves back at the end of June.
We generally spoke of how each of us had spent the previous evening. I took my dad out for an early Father's Day dinner, leaving me little time to chat with her yesterday. A fair trade, but as it turned out, not always a comfortable one. Dad and I started our evening together with his admission that my previous post about Greece had left him frustrated and put off. He and Joey had gone to an extraordinary end to take the family on an incredible vacation, and I termed it "monotonous." I failed to mention the fun I had on the trip. In a rush to describe my feelings from the trip, I sounded exactly like a brat. Kate summed it up perfectly, "there's a line between blogging and journaling, and you just crossed it."
I realize there's no turning back on some things, but hopefully there is some qualifying available.
The two most important things in my life right now are Kate and rock climbing. They require constant attention to maintain a level of health and vigor with which I'm comfortable. I am obsessive, and have a particularly hard time letting something rest once I've determined to pay it my mind. In Greece, I was largely cut off from both of these priorities, and the experience left me a bit discombobulated.
Kate moved to DC for a job in November. We have been treading water, hoping to find rescue in the form of reunification, ever since. Faithfulness to the relationship, not physically so much as emotionally, took a strong effort on both of our parts. And while I was in Greece, that lifeboat appeared. Her deciding to take a job in Boulder, to resign from the expectation and opportunity of the East Coast, in some part to nurture our relationship and probe for long term fecundity, took an enormous leap of faith on her part. Instead of being able to share in it with her, I was a tiny speck in a blue sea, out of contact. During arguably the most important two weeks of our lives together, I was unavailable. This wore heavily on my mind.
As Kate called my father's Blackberry to tell me she would be moving back, news which should rightly have been met with Champagne, I was headed to dinner with an Amstel Heavy in my hand. I could briefly share in the excitement, but quickly had to go. I had to go back to a generous, gorgeous, fulfilling family vacation, but I couldn't be entirely there. I wasn't entirely anywhere. And when I'm out of balance, out of whack, out of touch, I go climbing. In the middle of the Mediterranean, I wouldn't be doing that, either.
Before I left for the Cyclades, I was climbing really well. Grades that spurned me last year were coming with unaccustomed ease, and admittedly, I selfishly wanted to keep going with my momentum. Taking time off was, in reality, not going to cost me a bunch of fitness, and would actually in the long run benefit my health, but I lost sight of that just a touch, and allowed a tinge of resentment to creep in and taint my ability to set back and really relax.
And here we are, revisiting Greece. I'm sorry I couldn't be everywhere. I should have given Kate more mind, left climbing at home, and been entirely immersed in the sailing experience. I tried to say this the first time, but swung and missed. Such are the lessons when you're trying to learn how to write.
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