Space

“I need my space.”

 

When I was twenty, words like these were semaphore-swing code for “this ship is going down.” Now post divorce and post forty, the letters are bi-focal clear black marker on dry erase white board.

 

I reply as the educated man of the world that I am, “I know!  Me too!” I’m relieved.

 

Life is different now. I’m more man-boy than boy-man. Back in the early days of  the cupie-doll dating and the big giddy “space” was the last thing you wanted. Now I’m older, a little set in my ways, and find that space is a good thing. This isn’t the Pirate Queen telling me that she’s leaving me; this is her idea of foreplay.

 

Space, the final frontier…

 

Space is the unknown. It’s that place that resides between the comfort of dating and the comfort of being single. Sure, it’s the place where Ripley had problems with pesky belly-poppin’ aliens, but it’s also where Captain Kirk wooed green women.  Not all space is bad space. 

 

What’s more, transitioning from single to married doesn’t necessarily suck your space onto a vacuum, but it does relegate that space to a small square decompression chamber with a toilet, a lock, and a back log of space-worn trash-lit; it’s no longer a galaxy for exploration. It’s the same space, different day.  Anything green you find in that space is usually bad news, and probably requires you open the vent.

 

The Pirate Queen is rediscovering her open seas. It’s her time to rediscover herself and rediscovering life without a man dangling around her neck like an albatross. Me? It’s my time too. I sit in the crow’s nest and point.

 

“Land, ho!”

 

Yeah, that usually gets me her right hook. I think that’s why I like that space too, but I also like knowing that there’s somebody out there who wants a Robblogger, especially somebody who makes a peg leg sexy.

 

And for the “us,” “space” is a strange dynamic. It’s an electromagnet simultaneously repelling and drawing, keeping us in a warm fuzzy balance.  I think that it helps when we mention space in at least one of our daily emails. or phone calls. See, space isn’t isolation. Space is room to be ourselves. Space is a room to sort through our baggage and throw out the things that no longer fit, without making the other person try it on.

 

Space is a balance against the void. It’s easy to feel alone in space.  That’s why we remain in constant communication. Sure the business of our lives require radio silence, but we’re quick to open lines of communication as soon as we can.  In this way we keep from letting each other spiral into oblivion.

 

Space between us is liberating. I know that in time that dynamic will change, because over time, bodies are drawn closer, or they drift due to dying attraction. Still, you need time and space to test these things. If we work, we’ll create a gravitational pull, and then argue about who’s pulling whom.

 

“No, I’m the Earth, you revolve around me!” That’s another voyage. Today we enjoy our proximity, and bask in our space.

 

That’s something we share.  I’ve quoted “in space no one can hear you scream,” but that’s only if no one is listening.  That’s when insecurity sets in.  In our space somebody is always listening. Is this what it feels like to be a part of an adult relationship? If so I like this space.