Phantom Whiskers

Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night w/ a start, shaken from a dream or having to use the bathroom, and I hear the low hum of the heat and my breath catches; I think it’s Binx, purring away from the foot of the bed. When I hear the creak of the house, the floorboards settling in on each other, my heart stops; I’m sure Binx is on his way down the hallway and is about to burst through the bedroom door. I still wait for his incessant meowing to start in the hour before mealtimes, and give a wide berth to his favorite corner of the dining room rug so I don’t accidentally step on him in the dark. 

I’ve been watching Glee, and recently an episode was on where Lea Michele sang The Rose. It had been ages since I heard that song, and I don’t remember having strong feelings for it one way or another, but hearing it now absolutely wrecked me. It’s been on a nonstop loop this afternoon while I scrolled through pictures of Binx, and I’m pretty certain this is not healthy behavior. 

I don’t need a good cry. I don’t feel better after these hysterical episodes. I need to pick myself up and get on with it, I just don’t know how to.

At work I’m phoning it in and not feeling it. This is bizarre b/c I adore my work and the hours have always flown by; now I’m just biding my time until the day is over. I used to always be able to talk myself into the gym, even after a long day, but now I just go home. If I do drag my ass there, I’m aggravated w/ all the new resolutioners taking up all the parking spots and treadmills and I half-ass a sorry excuse for a work out. I get home and I eat everything in sight. I make steaming mugs of hot chocolate using cream and cocoa powder and disgusting amounts of sugar in gigantic mugs that can accommodate all the marshmallows. 

I know Binxy will not soon be forgotten or any less missed and loved, but I can’t seem to shake this funk that I’m in. His absence is a void, one that I’m clearly trying to fill w/ cocoa and marshmallows, that makes the days stretch and linger w/ no real purpose. I know he never wanted to see me sad, but it’s a catch 22 b/c if he was here, this wallowing would have been nipped tout suite; he couldn’t stand self-pity, he was a real pull-yourself-up-by-your-whiskers kind of guy. You would be, too, if you had whiskers like that.