Getting Through This

           I picked up my computer from the shop this morning. 
           “It had some viruses on it.  From some of the websites you’ve been visiting,” the computer guy told me over the telephone. 

             After a moment’s hesitation, I decided not to ask him which websites “I’d been visiting” that he was referring to.  Safer that way.  More considerate, you know.  Though I’m sure PC repair guys have seen it all—like EMT personnel, they are probably pretty hard to shock. 

            (Though I did look at the “Recent Items” category under my control panel and found that it was wiped clean except for a half dozen pics of me in my bikini.  Riiiiight.)
           The interview I referred to a few posts back (not the tutoring job) went well.  I was hired, if I decide to take the job.  I think it’s safe (relatively speaking).  It doesn’t advertise, it’s a legal establishment; the management struck me as serious-minded and professional.  The Surgeon couldn’t find me there.  So, it’s an option.
          I ran my predicament with the Surgeon by two women friends today.  This was a first for me—usually I don’t talk about it to anyone, ever.  Both of them were, shall we say, alarmed, which just goes to show you how distorted my thinking can be when it comes to this guy.  I need to get out of this situation—but leave now, or leave later?  For the first time in a long time, he has something that I may need—really need.  If I keep him happy—and I know how to keep him happy—he’ll go to bat for me if I run into some problems with a certain institution (which, I’m sorry, cannot be named here) a have an…adversarial relationship with.   The Surgeon likes to fight; to him it is a sort of recreational pastime.  As I was reminded a few days ago—in a most unpleasant and hurtful fashion—he will punish whatever or whomever says no to him.  And he will not stop. 

             To him, you’re either on the top, or you’re on the bottom.  Like a child, his thinking is very black and white.  Over much time, I have learned how to handle him—how to be on top.  The trick is to make him think that I’m not.  Whatever it is, make him think that it’s his idea.  Never ask—let him offer.  Whenever possible, you do not give this man the power to say no to you, to deprive you of anything.  He can be generous, but he is capricious, and he enjoys his power. 
            Here—I will make a bet with you, good reader.  A bet with myself.  A little game. 
          This is what Tanita reported this morning.  I am slightly skeptical; we’ll see what she registers tomorrow. 

            If the Surgeon sees me this week—if I decide to stick it out—do you think that he will inquire about my weight, or express anything resembling concern?  Or will he rave  and tell me how fantastic I look? 

            If it is the latter, it would tell you quite a bit about his personality, wouldn’t it?  
In fact, I think it would tell you just about everything you need to know.

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