It's morning, just past eight, and I'm in my office on the second floor. I've given myself ten minutes to write. My dog is downstairs and I figure, I will wait for her food to cool down a bit before serving it. I'd microwaved it because it unleashes the smells and makes it more appealing and I want her to eat so I can walk her around the block and attempt to get her to poop again before the car ride up to New Hampshire.

It'd been raining for two days straight but it's sunny today, pools of standing water on the asphalt sure to be evaporated in just a few hours, but the clumps of autumn leaves on the ground seem like less of a sure bet, complicated folds and layers seeming to create a protective barrier for the moisture. Leaves still might be wet tomorrow.

In an hour we'll be driving up to New Hampshire to see an old friend from high school, his wife, his daughter, an exchange student from Poland or the Netherlands or something like that. I'm not exactly dreading it but I'm not looking forward to it either. Penny needs to go more than anything – I can tell she is getting restless around the house. My friend from high school – let's call him Paul because I need a name that isn't his real name but I cannot remember the map of names I created for this blog right now – Paul is running a marathon and we will all be there at the finish line to cheer him in.

It was going to be that our mutual friend from high school Cal would be there too but Cal is not coming – apparently Cal is flying to Paris and will be there for a month or so. The City of Light, he said, in a text, is open for business, and we are all welcome to see him there too.

There is an irrational part of me deep inside that says that this is all a lie, that Cal is not coming to the marathon because Cal does not want to see me.

I cannot get the image out of my head of the last time I saw him. In Portland. It was just the one time since the wedding – I think Paul was there too – it was raining and I'd had a beer or two but surely no more than that – I had a shirt that might have been too tight and might have had some buttons open at the top and it might have been wet on top of it, and it might have looked like I was trying to show off or something, like European Man style, because of the middle-aged European Egostistical Man stereotype, the kind of wheezy and breezy guy who has a little bit of money but not that much, well off but not rich, who has let it go to his head, and is trying to pretend that he is cool, and hot, and sexual – I don't know if I am describing this all that well. I feel my ego might have been on display along with my stupid wet shirt. Cal is one of the few people I still get embarrassed around at my age. We profess to enjoy one another but in real life, I'm not sure. He probably thinks I'm irritating, and I'm surely intimidated by him.

So I said on the group chat thread last week "Penny and me and Shelley will all be there Paul!" and Cal responded the next day saying he's got flights and we'll have to catch up later.

And instantly that insecure part of me that thinks that it knows things told me that Cal was going to come to the marathon but now that he knows that I'm going to be there, he's skipping it. Cal wants to see Paul but does not want to see me. I am certain of it.

But then of course I step back a little and realize: Who fucking knows why Cal isn't coming. His story might be completely true: Would love to make it but: Flying. Or it could be false but for reasons that have nothing to do with me: Banging my lover, planning on having a weekend high as a kite doing nothing, just don't fucking feel like it, depressed, girlfriend problems, all sorts of things. He's an adult with an adult life and adult problems.

There go my ten minutes. We'll drive up. It'll be beautiful. Shelley will help me pass time with Penny in the car. We'll watch New England shake off the rain as the day develops. Hopefully Paul doesn't get hurt from the run - 26 miles is a long fucking way – the most I've ever run was about 18 and it was also back when I lived in New Hampshire – I ran 18 at one point when I was prepping to run the half marathons that I ran – both with Cal, interestingly. I think that was when I decided I was never going to be able to run a full marathon because of my knees and back.

I'll try to have a good day. We won't get home until four or five and I'll be exhausted. I'm not going to offer for the gang to stop by unless it's literally ten or fifteen minutes – an absolute pit stop.

I don't know what to say. Days like this – I feel like my life is not mine. I know it's going to be exhausted. I worry I won't remember anything or I won't say the right thing. I worry I'll talk too much about myself instead of asking other people questions. All the same shit that I used to worry about in my twenties. Time changes a lot but some things I cannot seem to beat out of myself. Some characteristics are hard wired.