I can’t even begin perusing profiles until my account is approved. Which takes three days. Three long, lonely days.
As the days pass, the more hope fills me. I imagine coming home to someone waiting for me. Someone to talk to in the evenings and spend quiet time with. I think about this especially as I drive home from practice. I imagine what it’d be like to open my door and see my wife waiting for me with a smile.
Which means I’m all the more disappointed when I get home from hockey and my apartment is as empty as it usually is. Or as it is now, as I get ready to leave.
I stop in front of the door and look around. These walls barely know my voice. I talk so little to so few people. I’m notsure I’ve had anyone in my space since the movers who brought my boxes up. That means, for the past five months, it’s just been me between these walls.
That feels sad. I don’t hate being alone. It’s not that kind of lonely. But I don’t want to be alone, and my choices up to this point in my life have been compromising myself to make a woman happy while increasingly feeling resentful and gross… or being alone.
I’m not willing to live that life. Regardless of what Karens and Chads think, I don’toweanybody my body. Not even in a relationship. Their pleasure is not my responsibility. Quite frankly, I don’t give a shit if people disagree. We’re not living in the 1800s anymore.
I give my space another once-over. “Be back in a couple hours,” I tell the walls and windows. Then I roll my eyes and head out.
My condo is only fifteen or so miles from the arena, but with traffic, it usually takes me half an hour to forty minutes. No matter the time of day. If I’m cranking out of here by the first rays of the sun on a Sunday, I can usually get somewhere pretty quickly. But if I’m leaving that early, it usually means I’m meeting the team at the airport.
I use the drive as quiet time, which almost always makes me laugh when I think about it. My life feels like one big quiet time. Maybe that’s not the right thing to call it. It’s transition time. The time it takes to get from my condo to the arena allows me to get into a hockey mindframe. Even if all I’m doing is conditioning.
I also use this time to call my mama every week. Otherwise, we deal with an angry Mama whose child is neglecting her. I smile as the phone ringing fills my car.
“Hello, baby,” Mama greets. “On your way to hockey?”
“I am. Weights today.”
“Your favorite.”
I snort. It’s not my least favorite, but I’d much rather be on the ice working on skills than building muscle. I understand that both are equally important, but we all have our preferences.
“Your team isn’t doing their best this year,” Mama says.
“Tell me about it,” I groan. “I don’t feel like we’re even on the same team most days.”
“Their mamas didn’t teach them to play well together.”
“Maybe they’re only children.”
“Ohh, what’re you saying, child?”
I laugh. “That I had a very happy childhood and didn’t have to compete for my mama’s love.”
“Mhm,” she agrees.
“Hey, I think I got fried chicken down, though I’m sure I’m missing something in the seasoning.”
“It’s not the seasoning, Jules. You’re using an air fryer instead of hot oil like the Good Lord intended.”
“He intended for heart attacks early in life, huh?”
“Don’t you judge the unjudgeable.”
I laugh. “Sorry, Mama. I still think I’m missing something, though.”
“We’ll work on it. Give me a call when you’re preparing your next batch. Be sure to soak those breasts first, baby.”
“I do. In buttermilk. Even though it’s wildly bad for you.”
“Where did you come with all this concern for healthy foods?”
“A healthy diet means a healthy body. And that means I can play hockey longer.”
