my weekend dates

I have to say, Skype may be the best thing ever invented. I know that I’m way behind in declaring this now, but the fact that I can see and chat with A., lying in his bunk bed in Afghanistan in his adorable white T-shirt and funky glasses just before he goes to bed — and do it for FREE — is incredible to me. (I won’t get into how I made a $500 telephone call from Germany to Spain when I was in college — but I’m sure my parents would be happy to elaborate).

A. and I skype on the weekends — he’s 9.5 hours ahead (don’t ask me about the .5, I think it’s weird too). He’s a night owl, so I catch him at 2 a.m. or 3 a.m. his time for our weekend date.

To prep, I actually brush my hair and sometimes put on lipstick. And then I put on these very nerdy and awesome red headphones A. mailed me that I can speak into (I look like I work in the window at McDonald’s: “Can I take your order?”). And I situate myself on my olive green couch and wait for him to sign on.

Occasionally in the middle of the conversation, I’ll have an awful, screeching feedback that sounds something like this: “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” and I make a face of disgust and discomfort until it passes. Also, occasionally (OK, more than occasionally), I can’t hear A. — he’s talking and his lips are moving, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. It’s because his connection over there isn’t as good as mine.

And it’s OK. I’m comfortable in our silences. I’m content with just looking at him with a twinkle in his eye and bringing in my lips really close to the camera for a kiss.


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