It's like, now every moment that he isn't calling is the moment that he isn't calling.
It's not the moment I'm bopping to the beat of Kings of Leon feeling like I was 17 and awestruck again.
It's not the moment I hesitate shakily halfway through my umpteenth rep of lunges.
It's not the moment I'm researching buttercream, strawberry meringue and peanut butter, for the birthday cupcakes I'm making for Sam for our pre-Death Cab for Cutie pic-a-nic on Sunday.
It's the moment I'm pathetically checking my phone, sometimes on vibrate, sometimes on silent, sometimes off when I just can't stand it anymore, until that triumphant moment when he calls or texts or otherwise lets me know that I'm not completely insane for expecting some sort of communication.
I hate it.
And I'm doing just fine, I'm thrilled with life right now, everything is coming up fucking roses, and now I'm doubting myself.
I'm not ready for this.
But then I'm thinking, my life has been pretty effortless of late. I wake up every morning and think, "Another perfect fucking day in Santa Barbara." Except lately, it's another perfect day for fucking in Santa Barbara.
Hmm, maybe that's a little too much.
Sam's girlfriend put it this way: "If you wanted to be his girlfriend, you would be." Oh. Yeah.
But I'm right in that place where maybe I can handle a bit of this discomfiture, this second guessing, this awkwardness, because I've been through a few of these tunnels, and I tend to come out the other end better, stronger. Like the six million dollar man! Or maybe the bionic woman. I don't actually know; I've never seen those shows.