Not to be confused with last week’s post, 36 hours _uacct = “UA-4888259-1″;urchinTracker();
My husband has exactly 34 hours to get home before I trade him in. Don’t worry – he knows these conditions. I am nothing, if not transparent.
So, for the next 34 hours, I will madly try to assemble some veil of festivity in our house. I will try to get it cleaned up and decorated to give the impression that I am slightly prepared for Christmas this weekend.
It’s all a lie – I’m not the least bit prepared, and he fully knows that.
I will go to hot yoga at the yoga place I can’t stand, and try to get my Christmas-zen on.
I will give my homemade Christmas a last-ditch effort and make one more thing to go in the baskets of doom. Stupid baskets of doom. Next year, everyone is getting painted rocks and a kick in the ass.
I will walk on my treadmill for an hour, because that’s what I do. It’s what I live for.
I’ll try not to scream at my children, but no promises there…
And by 8pm tomorrow night, I will have my husband back…or else. In 7 years, this is the longest we’ve been apart. Even the 13 weeks he spent in Saskatchewan when we’d only been dating a month or so was broken up by flights to and from each month. The five weeks he spent in Ft MacMurray in early 2008 were broken up with 2 flights home.
This time? Nothing.
5 weeks, to the day, since I’ve seen my husband. And during that 5 weeks, we’ve managed to have a pretty awful time. It wasn’t sunshine and roses, that’s for sure! It sucked a lot, and if it weren’t for Twitter, I’d probably be either drunk or committed right now.
So, in 34 hours, I am going to feel the skies open up and the birds sing (even though it will be dark, but whatever…) and feel like there is just a little bit of hope and light in the world for us again.
I can’t wait