Shall we invite the penguins to dinner dear?

I'm currently scampering around Norway, land of the Viking, home of the ridiculously good looking. I've been gone for just over a week now. And as such the 20% Russian has been left to his own devices for 5 weekdays and 2 weekend nights. I'm nervous, and for no rational reason, he seems to be a good guy (please note I reserve the right to retract this statement at any later stage if he becomes a douche).

Men don't need supervision do they? I want to hope not, but the more I sit staring at this question, I wonder just how rhetorical it is.

What am I to do? I need to let go and trust for this to get any substance behind it. I can't spend my life babysitting. What kind of relationship is had by confining a grown man to the reading corner? Only to come home praying nothing has happened.
And more seriously, why am I so un trusting inherently? Reading a psychoanalytical diatribe I’d hazard a guess it originates from a parental relationship. Unlikely. My parents are, yes, divorced - but unfortunately completely faithful. Hmm. Theory 2: Previous boyfriends cheating? Nope, negatory, never. Hmmm. I'm out of ideas.

How can my 'biggest fear' – which is it, be based in absolutely nothing at all? My fear, is in essence, for all intents and purposes, a macaroni penguin - all hairstyle and outfit with no substance.

(Side Note/Explanation of seemingly random sentence above: Around 1772 there was a 'macaroni club' in London whose playboy members wore particular clothes and hair styles. So the species was called macaroni penguin. Try and use it in a sentence today.)

Is it a fault of pop culture? Movies, music and television shows which encourage, condone and present characters that lure the viewer to side, encourage and, perhaps misleadingly, condone adultery. Perhaps in an age of individual rights we now believe it is better for the partner trapped in a sufferable situation to be able to ‘get out of jail free’ rather than stand by the decisions or promises they have made.

But to be fair that’s taking it a bit far. The 20% Russian isn’t trapped, struggling or unhappy as far as I can gather. Nor is he my husband. Either way, it doesn’t seem to matter. This little issue is not him. It’s me. It’s my drama, my fear and my macaroni penguin. I might just have to let my control side go, embrace my surroundings and like a Viking, albeit a less than ridiculously good looking one, forge ahead regardless of my latent desire to supervise penguins sitting in reading corners.