Perhaps the hardest part about having divorced parents is that the one who stays separately doesn't know the minute details of your life. The details that distinguish one day from the next, that prevents the week from being just another block of seven before meeting for the regular Sunday dinner.
I'm being less than general here, but it somehow gets tricky to share this little jarful of anecdotes; often it feels like I store them up hoping for an appropriate moment to laugh about them, or moan about them, but that window of opportunity evades me.
What 'details' do I mean? Oh, little things like how I left my blanket out in the rain yesterday and had to dump it in for washing and sleep with a musty spare throw instead. Or how my first visit to the cobbler went today, because the strap of my sandal broke suddenly as I was walking around college middle of this week.
He doesn't even know I nearly melted in the sun on Saturday and stood for 2.5 hours straight on Sunday evening, both at Showdown 2010 in OU. Or that I played backup singer for the second time in my life at a Youth bbq two days ago. He scoffs at my commitment to dance when I tell him it's causing me to slip academically.
The strange thing is, I don't remember these things when I'm with him. And it sure would be queer to read him updates from a list at dinner.
But ah, such are the vagaries of life.
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