I’m standing in the doorway of our bedroom as I say the words. My heart is content, peaceful, as I gaze with loving affection at my Rocket-man.

He is oblivious to my presence. He’s in bed, comfy-cozy in his flannel, catching-up on whatever on his iPhone before it’s lights out.

“I’m in love with another man,” I say.

“Uh, huh,” was his reply as he tapped away on this iPhone.
“His name is Andy.”

That got his attention.

Rocket-man looks up at me. “Andy?”

“I love his voice. It’s soothing. He knows just how to make me relax.”

“Andy who?” he asks again.

Did I detect a scintilla of concern? Nah. He knows me!  Like the time I was head-over-heals for Stanley Tucci. For weeks on end Rocket-man endured my adoration of the Big Night (and more) actor.  I even bought his cookbook simply because of the cover photo–Stanley standing next to his outdoor pizza oven.  Be still my beating heart.

“Andy. The HEADSPACE guy,” I reply with a sly grin.

“A HA!”

“Besides, you know me dear. I have a profound weakness for guys with an accent. It could be Tom, Dick, or Harry tomorrow you know. Or rather… Tomaso, Ricardo…..you get my drift.”

Yep. If a guy has an Australian, British, Italian or Spanish accent, instant swoon. I’m easy that way.

Rocket-man smiles. “Guess I’d better get busy with Italian lessons my love.”

So it’s day seven of HEADSPACE meditation. Seven days in a row! That is epic for this here messy head-space. Ten minutes with Andy and his accent has me feeling pretty good about handling stress. That is, until my man-child in the basement decides Ravioli in a can is better than mom’s cooking.

Thank goodness for my Dammit Doll. Three good WHACKS on the kitchen counter (with an expletive thrown in for good measure) gets me through the purple minion moment. 

Hmm.  A thought occurs: I might need to go for eleven minutes with Andy today.

It’s a journey.