What’s Missing

UM-Farmers-Market-063smallI decided to wear my yellow dress, my last attempt to savor summer. Don’t get me wrong – this past weekend attested to the beautiful aroma of autumn, but I always have been and always will be a Kentucky summer girl.

We were 20 steps from our apartment: my boyfriend in a blue striped button down and me in a lacy yellow dress with a light blue slip underneath.

“I forgot my eye drops,” Briston says. He hesitates to turn around. We decided to walk towards the harbor for our 7 p.m. reservation rather than fight parking coming home on a Sunday night in Federal Hill.

“Your eye was already bothering you earlier. Let’s just go back,” I say.

Briston remedies his eye condition; I never realize what I’m missing.

We hold hands and walk along the misshapen concrete sidewalks, torn from years of play. Briston holds my hand tightly so I squeeze harder. He likes to say I “walk” him from time to time, but the truth is when I’m with Briston, I can relax. I’m not trying to outpace the person in front of me or make it across the street before the light turns. Briston keeps me grounded from a Type A personality that often consumes me.

“I’m glad I wore the dress,” I say. Briston only sighs and smiles. Although I like to pride myself on not being one of those women who takes an hour to get ready before going out, I often get stuck on outfits.

“This one doesn’t feel right,” I complain or “I can’t wear this. I’ll probably be cold. Is it going to be cold? It will be cold, right?” or “I have to wear heels if I wear jeans, and I don’t feel like wearing heels,” and so on. Tonight was no different, and after 10 minutes of deliberation (which actually isn’t too bad for me), I decided on the yellow dress.

But in my haste not to dilly or be that woman, I forgot something. We were more than five blocks from the apartment when I realized I felt empty, but also free.

“Oh no,” I groan, “we have to go back.”

“What?” Briston just rolls his eyes.

“I forgot Gizmo.” That settled it. Gizmo is my life support. I never go anywhere without him, and I’m surprised I forgot him. It’s true we have a hate-love relationship, but Gizmo looks out for me. As long as I treat him right, he always will keep me in check (my blood sugars, that is).

“It must be because we just moved,” I say. “I’m so used to having one room, so it’s easy not to forget him. I can hear him vibrating from any corner of the room, but in our new apartment, I don’t have a place for him. I leave him everywhere like the dresser, the bed, the desk. No wonder I forgot him.”

“This sounds like it would be a good topic for one of those third world reads first world problems. ‘Yeah, I can never find the remote because I just have so much space now,'” Briston laughs. I laugh, too.

“This is a little more serious than that,” I say with a smile.

We return to the apartment again. I run upstairs and see him there on the bed. I plug him onto the left side of my waist and hook his clip to my bra. He’s now my inconspicuous insulin pump.

When I meet Briston downstairs, he takes my hand and says, “Look at us, both having to return to the apartment for our medical conditions.”

“Good thing we’re not having kids. They’d be screwed.”


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