The Man has finally admitted that he just might be battling a bit of a depression. He's been treated for it before and has been on medication. He doesn't want to start seeing anyone (well, most of the time I'm not sure he wants to keep seeing me either) and he doesn't want to go back on the drugs as apparently one of the side effects is "not being able to rise a smile". For those of you not familiar with pharmaceutical euphemisms, the body part he'd fail to rise is located between his legs. Though the smile that normal function on those regions normally rises is mine...Not that that would be an issue- seeing how being located in separate ends of Europe is a far more effective method of birth control than China's forced sterilizations.
I've tried to be supportive but I have very little to go on myself. As pointed out, my situation is every bit as bad. He is determined that all he needs is a new job- that would give him the security he needs and would instantly solve everything. What he doesn't seem to understand that I'm after a similar security, though in a form of a commitment. I'm trying to find a job, fully aware that when he lands his, I'd be expected to quit mine and follow him to his next assignment in order to pursue our happy end.
Oh, how Disney had it right. In that fairy tale world boys and girls meet, fall in love and get their happily ever after without depression, long-distance relationship, global recession and erectile dysfunction ever featuring...
At least in the meanwhile he has something to keep him busy. Like, right now he's in Texas, giving a Power point presentation (good news about that trip is that after the "everything is bigger there"- proportions of Texas I'm bound to look impossibly slim and slender. Me!). I on the other hand drink.
I drink too much. And too often. While in all 10 nights out of 10 I end up home (alone), in 8 nights out of 10, I don't really remember how I got there. I'm always the last one standing (until I'm not)- one who just wants to keep on drinking. A) because I don't have a job to go to in the morning and B) because it really doesn't matter if I get home at 7pm or 7am- there's no one waiting for me at home.
And I really can't afford this. Remember those boots I was pining for? Well, that weekend I poured at least two pairs' worth of booze down my throat. And down those of random gay men.
I wish he just got it. We're both looking for the same thing: long-term security. For him it comes in the form of 6-figure salary. For me in the form of 6ft tall man (with a 6-figure salary).
I've began to think that one of the downsides of being in a relationship with an Englishman is their belief that the right job will open some magic portal into a world full of bliss, and that doing anything resembling a serious commitment before then (like getting engaged) is either foolish or downright irresponsable. I guess it might just come with the territory.
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