I just had the realization, from the July, when M. biked and ran from Hitchcock’s “Birds” roost to August with our work retreat, late August to my artisanal vacation in Edinburgh until now, I haven’t been sleeping a lot at home. My second realization is I like my bed at home.

Tonight, I’m channeling work trips to DC from at least a decade ago, but more. Flying into the capitol and then thinking “What next?” Here’s a major, fucking huge difference, though. Then, those ten to fifteen years of change ago, I was at a national convention with a horny, guido conventioneer, who was also my director. Scary and sad to start drinking at night and realize hours later you were pimping out a friend’s colleague. Scary times, bad days.

Now, I had dinner in the Irish pub in the hotel, because for fuck’s sake I could order a Black Velvet and get a beverage with Guinness floated on top of cider. Sure, California has the Arnold Palmer, but for half and half drinks, that’s all she wrote. I also had a respectable sandwich and fries.

Unlike the horny director who bellied up to the bar and whatever contemporary young woman with whom I spoke, as though frottage was an acceptable greeting, nope now I’m with a cool coworker who met me at the bar. We had a normal, non-frightening convo.

Now it’s 1:30 in the morning where I am, but 10:30 in the evening where I live. Cold water to wash away the Black Velvet and sleep to forget the jet travel.

Tomorrow, I feign training. It’s harder to feign when you’re the trainer.