The Passage of Time.

I watched a TV drama tonight in which there was a scene which showed a woman eagerly awaiting the arrival of her lover, and when she heard a car coming up the drive to her house she smiled gleefully. It occurred to me that there isn’t a woman on earth who would feel that way if it were my car coming up her drive.

I felt a little chastened, but maybe I shouldn’t. Relationships of that sort were always white knuckle rides with airy pinnacles and dark subterranean caverns. It comes with the territory when you have the instinct of a rake, the personality of a romantic, and the mind of a Romantic idealist. Together they make a troublesome combination and condemn you to perpetual failure in almost everything except the gaining of experience.

You can grow quite used to being routinely glum, you know; you can even come to terms with having your advice more sought after than your company. Being needed more than wanted has an appeal of sorts, and the G forces encountered in rapid ascents and sudden plunges can be such a drain on the system.