I got some good news yesterday, and as I was driving home, I thought, This is kind of a big deal. Maybe I ought to, I don't know, tell someone.
Then I drove on a little further and thought, Who would I tell?
I was stumped.
I could have told G, but it wouldn't have meant anything to her, plus her eyes tend to glaze over whenever I mention work. I could have called my mother, and she would have said, "That's great," but she wouldn't really have gotten it either. I briefly entertained the notion of going into Starbucks and paying one of the baristas to listen to my story, but decided it was a little too much. Better to save that sort of thing for later in life, after I become a crazy cat lady.
Of course, the person I wanted to tell, the person who would have understood and really been pleased, was P, but I couldn't. So in the end, I told no one.
I suppose this was a step up from what usually happens in situations like these, when I see or hear or do something and immediately think I've got to tell Peter -- oh. Yeah. Dammit. At least this time I managed to remember that he's dead, and therefore not available to chat about my day. It's amazing that I can still forget, but after someone's been in your life for as long as he was in mine, it must take more than a couple of years for it to really sink in that you'll never see or talk to that person again. Until you do, though, it feels like running into a brick wall all the time, when you least expect it.