But this morning, I got out of bed at 7:30 - there was no hot water last night so I had to get up early to shower - and I got to chat with Keith for a while and shower and even blow-dry my hair and get a bit dressed up and make my way out the door without feeling like the hounds of hell were nipping at my heels. Ahhhh, nice.

And I feel so pretty all dressed up! Tonight Ben and I are going to some art gallery show where three of his friends are showing their work so I'm wearing a fave outfit of mine: a sleeveless strappy cotton sorta-stretchy black dress with white polka dots trimmed at the hem in black lace. It fits at the bust and waist and then flares at the hips a bit and falls to just below my knee - very flattering. (Oh, and duh, I'm wearing a black cardigan over it, lest you think I'm baring all in the middle of a January chill.) A big shout-out to Torrid again for this dress - that store has done wonders for my love-life with Ben. It was my blue bandanna print dress that I was wearing on our happy alrighty-now-we're-talking third date , and my cherry 50's-housewife-Lucy-Ricardo dress that ignited the night of sparks that culminated in the third-time's-the-charm of a finally mutual "I love you", and this polka dot dress that got delightfully drenched in champagne on New Years Eve before it got completely torn off. I'm saving the purple plaid corset dress for my birthday, and the pale green plaid halter dress for some random night when I want to surprise Ben.

Sorry to slip into salivation over my sartorial splendor (not to mention absolutely shameless alliteration; I couldn't help myself) but the fat girls reading this will most likely understand - I spent probably the first 25 years of my life wearing hideous, uncomfortable, ghastly clothing because that was all that was available. (I shudder to recollect!) Even still, it can be difficult to find stuff that's remotely fitted, or flattering, or not lumpy or frumpy or baggy or gross. So Torrid dresses (on clearance, even!) make me damn happy. Even if it is a five hour round trip (ugh!) to brave the wilds of Staten Island to get to the store.

Who knew I was such a clotheshound? Especially after growing up my whole life with my mom's jeans-tshirt-sweatshirt-please-don't-make-me-wear-a-skirt attitude (when my wallet was stolen last summer she asked me, "why wasn't it in your pocket?" and I replied, "I didn't have pockets" and she was utterly astonished that I would buy clothes without pockets.) Believe me, I love a big old comfy oversized sweater and baggy jeans with tons of pockets, but it's nice to shake things up a bit.

Speaking of shaking things up a bit (an entirely unintended segue, I assure you), I dreamt of the louse last night. Ewwww, icky. Especially since it was a (brace yourself: super-ick) romantic-y (romant-icky?) sort of a dream. (Guess it was a good idea to take a shower in the morning, no?) Though other than the "ewww, it's like eating live crunchy bugs or maggoty rotten cheese on Fear Factor factor", I wasn't and am not significantly or deeply troubled by this (although I sure was squicked out upon waking!) Last night I was talking to my mom about her friend who is taking Effexor and getting awful nightmares from it, nightmares bad enough to haunt her all day, and it reminded me of the early days where the louse of my dreams seemed like the louse of my days: lingering, festering, harrowing. (Oh, I am getting a bit florid, aren't I?)

After my mom and I hung up I started leafing through my old handwritten diaries out of curiosity, to look at the beginning of the louse years, to see what mistakes I made, to see the progression of the badness and what the warning signs were and how long it took for there to be more pain than happiness.

Wowsa.

The first thing that I noted (other than "wow, was I really that flighty four years ago? Oh my god, am I really flighty now and I won't notice it until four years down the road?") was pre-louse, and pretty neat. I started reading a few months before I met the louse, and you know, it's funny. I had always thought that I never dated much, and men were never interested in me, and well, of course that's why I succumbed to the crumbs the louse threw my way. Well, you know something? Since I moved to the city, whenever I decided to actively date, I never went long at all without seeing someone or at least going out on dates. Sure, there were the periods of voluntary abstaining, or the longer periods of meeting a whole lotta not-the-one guys, but my mental state really did not reflect reality at all. So I was feeling desperate and lonely - especially since I was meeting lots of guys who were really into me but it never worked out - and that whole time I thought it was me, totally all me, and not at all comprehending that hey, sometimes it's a numbers game and sometimes you've gotta wade through a lot of close calls.

A lot of perspective four years gives you, eh?

But meeting the louse. Yikes. We weren't even together two weeks without things going badly. I've probably written about most of them. The "I have too much love to give to be with just one person" stuff - what I had forgotten about was how soon after that proclamation he decided to act on it and how quickly I started stuffing my emotions and preferences and pride. And then I was reminded of big mondo early warning signs that I was frankly an idiot for ignoring (I am of course compassionate with myself and don't really think I'm a big old idiot, but boy, I had some serious blinders on.)

Or how's about the night six months into it (I remember: I had made rice pudding that night, and put in cinnamon and raisins in it for him, even though I don't like cinnamon or raisins in rice pudding - I wanted to stir them in after it was done so I could have mine unadulterated but he insisted that it had to be cooked with the flavorings or it wouldn't be the same. Everything had to be his way, all the time - I don't think he knows the meaning of compromise), the night where everything had seemed ordinary and then suddenly he started going on and on about how suffocating I was and he couldn't do it anymore and he was going to leave me and I couldn't bear it, I felt fatally wounded and I cried and cried, flooded with despair - and he proceeded to fall asleep in my bed. Jill especially never got over that - the man breaks up with me, breaks my heart, and doesn't even have the decency to leave. He was too tired to take the train home (half an hour away.) I still have a hard time getting over that I never kicked him out - it never occurred to me to kick him out.

Welcome to the first six months of "love" with the louse. And that was the honeymoon period. And I stayed for 2 more years.

(My readers are now starting to seriously question my judgment.)

When I was sick with food poisoning during my Christmas vacation, I started off by throwing up and once the vomiting subsided, I had gut-wrenching, horrible diarrhea - it was like my intestines had turned to water. My mother (my poor mom - whenever I'm sick I call her up and cry "Mommy, I don't feel good!") told me, "the poison is making its way through your body. Try not to take any medicine to stop it if you can - let the poison flush itself as fast as it can."

An ugly but apt analogy: the louse as poison, as diarrhea. This much later, I'm still expelling him. No medicine - let it take its course.

When I had the food poisoning, Ben took care of me and kissed me and helped me through it. I don't like to subject him to too many louse memories, but even still, he's helping me through this too. In going through my diary, I read it with an eye on my relationship now - what is 3 1/2 months with Ben like compared to 3 1/2 months with the louse. Answer: no comparison. I've had three and half months of happiness, sane contented sublime calm just-plain-happiness.

I'm gonna be just fine.