Turn the Wheels

I warn you now, I feel distinctly unwell. I've got four nights of Caberet ahead of me (more on that story later), and seem to be suffering from an indecent cold. FEH.

So, what's new? Well, not much actually. I still haven't started my dissertation, my room's still a tip, and I'm still going. Business as usual then! I'm still suiting up for more than half of the week and still refer to my learned lecturer, Dr. Alan Howard as "Sir". The rings have returned, but I really need a new one for my right hand. Not only am I getting a lot of feminine cracks about it, but also the fact that it came from a certain person for a certain reason (which also means I can't or won't wear it on my left hand) makes me a little loath to wear it. I'm very happy with having a ring on the right hand, and the white gold makes a nice contrast (in typical two-tone style) to my left hand's yello gold rings, but...well, you know. I'm looking for a sterling silver number to take its place.

This all seems to be part of a willing regression before the ultimate progression, my graduation. As I explain to people who question the appearance of my bling, I routinely and truthfully answer that I used to wear them all the time, not to mention wearing a suit every day, and also referring to my educators by honourifics. Dr. Waters I call The Boss, J of N I call Chief, and Dr. Howard and Mr. John Stephens are Sirs. I've gone back to playing the Banjo for several hours a week, and with Caberet have been playing Bass a lot more. (More on those stories later.) It is almost as if I am returning, in a way, to te good old days of one's Grammar School. The safety and security of these old habits is keeping me bouyed in a tumultuous sea of progress that is both inevitable and inescapable. It's a living, huh?

But anyway. Back in those Halcyon times, I was in a steady relationship. I can almost feel you rolling your eyes as you read this, but I have had much cause to remember this, not only because I'm surrounded by first years who are or are not in long distance relationships that are or are not working, but also because of the artefact on my right hand. Long time (or should I say new as well) readers and those who know me to any personal extent are familiar with my constant wailing about the lack of one now. Anyway, something funny happened to my thought process the other day. It's most heartening.

So, usual set up. Beautiful girl, admired and loved from afar by the Captain without him realising. After some though Captain becomes aware and therefore becomes too terrified to do anything about it.
Nothing new yet, eh? Read on.
Captain begins to become aware of a nagging feeling behind the forehead. No, it isn't brain death, that happened long ago. He feels foolish and ashamed about his fears! Even he himself is tired of his ridiculous lack of courage, when he has enough chutzpah to leave the flat every day. What? Even I'm tired of not doing anything.

So what will actually happen? Good question. One of my problems is that there are rather a lot of attractive ladies I would wish to take out; basically there's too much choice. OR I fancy neither one more than the others. The latter is probably more like it. It's not that I'm commitnent-phobic (far from it, in fact, I'm actually phobic of clowns (But not Papa Lazaru)), but perhaps I am in not commiting to the one. Or maybe, just maybe, this is what "playing the field" is all about. I rather feel that I'm the one getting played though, if the field itself is some sort of metaphysical player.

For once, maybe I will. I'm totally doing this at the wrong time what with my dissertation and all...but it'll be good. What's the worst that could happen?