Being on the condo board is becoming something of a drag. I won't go into the petty details -- and oh! are they ever petty! -- but it's wearing on me. I fantasize all the time about moving in 2019. I sincerely hope the building deconversion sale goes through.
Work is annoying me. I know, I know. It's called "work" for a reason. Nothing is wrong, really. I just sense an uptick in tension, and with open seating it's impossible to escape.
I owed Henry a phone call. I realize I'm lucky to have him at all, and that it's a privilege that he loves me and reaches out to me during this tender recovery period. But talking to him wears me out. I am very happy to note that there's real, visceral improvement: He barely touched on the accident today, and didn't spend a moment bashing his partner, Reg. He's less about the past and more about the world around him. I believe more and more strongly that he will recover and be his old self again.
But there's a pressure inherent in our conversations. I admit I challenge him. He has told me repeatedly since the accident that everyone treats him "like a child," and I have promised him repeatedly that I refuse to. But am I doing the right thing? I'm not a shrink or a physician, I'm just a friend who loves him. And so on Saturday, after we had our chat, I took a nap.
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