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.
“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.
Hmm. A thought occurs: I might need to go for eleven minutes with Andy today.
It’s a journey.