Husband is going on Imposed Restriction to Winnipeg. Those five bland, bureaucratic syllables will mean absolutely nothing to many of you so let me put it in terms you will understand. He is moving to a big, scary city filled with raccoons and bicycle thieves and dogs with horrible eyebrows, and he his going without me. I am remaining here until the house sells. Or something falls out of the sky, obliterating said house and thereby freeing me, like a pasty northern genie from a newly renovated, reasonably priced, 4 bedroom suburban bottle in a good location, close to schools and shopping.
We are fine (we are not fine) with this. It will be fine (it's not fine).
But we will be fine (we will be fine).
Let's define the word fine, as I am employing it here. Fine is not good. It is not peachy. Fine is not even okay or acceptable. Fine is what you become when you consider all of the alternatives and decide, despite distance and turmoil and having to live so far away from your very best friend that your heart aches just typing the words, fine is just how it has to be. Fine is a state of mind. It's a verbal shrug while you're trying to smile and hoping no one hugs you at the wrong moment and breaks your dam, because excessive and unexpected public mucus is certainly not fine.
How do I know this? Because we always are. Twelve years of supporting each other through floods, loss, sickness, house sales, moves, endless home renovations, mysterious nocturnal flatulence, and Meeker have taught us that we will, always, be fine.
Even when things are not fine (things are not fine).
