I looked at my desk calendar this morning, and the date was February 16th. Time slips away quickly. I have a four-legged companion keeping my lap warm after a lengthy absence. The human in me is inclined to get all sentimental and say she loves me and missed me, but the pragmatist in me knows the house is cold and the cat is clearly stoned from the zen tea bag wrapper I gave her earlier.

How to measure the passage of time? It seems like three months have dissolved before my very eyes, but I know that isn’t entirely true. I hiked a few times and I completed a few drawings, but oddly I still feel like a guest in my own home.

I could measure the passage of time, by the changing market values, but that isn’t enlightening insomuch as it is utterly disgusting. I could measure time by the amount of cat hair on my pants but there is always cat hair, so that isn’t satisfactory unless I produce a bald house pet. I can measure the passage of time by the number of these, I’ve hand stitched, but it only accurately depicts the past week. The body count was eleven.

Last week, my husband expressed concern over all the stress possibly sending someone over the edge. I wondered if he intended it as a barb directed at me. I don’t function as well as I should around crowds, and fervent crowds are the absolute worst. Too much raw emotion.

I worked to keep perceived slights to myself and ignore emotionally driven irrationality. Although, it isn’t becoming of one’s character to gloat about a behavior that is expected in polite company, I am gloating now. I didn’t lose my shit and create a scene, in spite of residing in the land o’ plenty. The best part was my husband didn’t seem to notice the tension between his SIL (he can claim her. I choose not to) was so thick and icy you couldn’t fracture it with a snow shovel.

I suspect someone left with their feelings hurt, though I know not who.