We awoke this morning to snow on the ground, something that the local weather forecasters had not warned us about. A number of accidents have resulted from this snow, and I wonder if maybe people had had some warning, they might have driven more carefully. There's a "storm on the horizon" (weather-speak cliche) for tomorrow night that is possibly a six-incher. Fun, fun, fun. At least it's supposed to be gone by the time I have to drive again.
The wind is still trying to blow the house off its foundation. It was really intense yesterday, too. Most of my driving in the past has been more east-west, and now that I'm going north-south, with the lake only a few miles to the west, I'm feeling just how powerful those gusts can be. At times it's similar to how a driver would feel if someone in the passenger seat reached over and gave the steering wheel a mighty tug.
My on-campus classes had their course evaluations to do yesterday. I don't expect great results from them since I know I've been lax about getting work back to them in time. One girl in particular has been vocal about her irritation, but this is the same girl who whines about every assignment and tells me why she just can't do it (implying that the assignment--and thus the teacher--is at fault, not the student writer who fails to employ imagination and creativity). Yesterday she was whining again about their last assignment, and I cheerfully (and loudly) asked her if she'd like some cheese with that whine. Probably not a smart move on the day they are doing course evaluations. But I really don't much care at this point.
Today is the last day of November, and it's now exactly two weeks until the graduation ceremony. I haven't even tried on my expensive little gown, hood, and tam. I guess they'll fit. I suppose I ought to try them on to see whether I need to alter anything. Wouldn't it be nice if they'd do something different with the hats? The mortar boards were silly enough, but these little velvet tams look like the losing entries in a bad hat-designing contest. Nevertheless, I will hold my head high and wear the robes and hat with pride. I've worked for it. I'll spend the rest of my life paying for it. And by George, I'm going to enjoy myself.
Alas, I suspect there won't be much of a celebration. It would never occur to the beloved spouse that I want any kind of celebratory party. In the past, for his bachelor's, master's, and DBA ceremonies, I've given him parties. (Well, his mom and I together have done it.) I have very serious doubts that he's even thought about it, and it would shock him to imagine that I would want him to do something special for me. If he does do something, I'll fall over in a dead faint. A joyful dead faint, to be sure. Yes, I know I could TELL him to do it, and then I'd have to tell him EXACTLY what to do. But that is not what I want. I want him to be so damned proud of me that he wants the whole world to help us celebrate. I want floats. I want parades. I want giant billboards to announce the news. I want balloons and cakes and musicians and confetti. What I DON'T want is for him to shamefacedly admit that he THOUGHT about doing something, but that there just wasn't enough time, money, whatever. Nothing makes me feel less loved than that. I've tried doing it back to him for various birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, and it just doesn't work. He's just relieved that he didn't have to endure a fuss.
And therein lies the difference. I adore the man, I really do. I'd crawl a mile on broken glass for him. And I know he loves me. He just doesn't have a romantic bone in his body. In the past, when I've kind of insisted he do something romantic, he's done it, dutifully. But face it, it's not the same. I refuse to tell him to do it. I even refuse to contact the women in our lives (his mom, my sisters, our daughters-in-law, our friends) to get them to nag him to do it. It's quite likely that the next big event in our lives that will require any sort of ceremony will be him needing to plan my funeral. And by then, it'll be a little too late for the romantic gestures I crave. If he waits till then to show the world he loves me, then I'll come back and haunt him. I will not be Casper the Friendly Ghost. I will be a banshee, wailing and moaning and shrieking through the night. I'll put salt in his coffee. I'll be ... just as hopeless as I am now. Dr. S.
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