Starting up again...

Grad school, with all of the dense readings, the lectures on little known subjects, the lunches with friends sharing unbelievable stories, has been an enlightening experience. Yet, all the above mentioned factors aside, the most enlightening aspect has been the interaction with my male peers.

My undergrad experience was far from the see a cute guy in the halls, smile, know you will probably run into him later at whatever solo cup rager was going on that weekend, look as cute as possible on that night, and then who knows what. In my case, if I saw a cute guy in the halls, chances were I would probably never see him again. Now, here I am in a full on campus environment, where, after one semester, I know everyone's face if not their name. It's both comforting and disquieting.

Our Dean said in his welcome speech that some of us, undoubtedly, will get married to each other. How could that possibly be the case? It already feels incestuous to view each other romantically - and oh how people would talk. And yet that doesn't stop people, attached or otherwise, from making eyes and overtures...

Meet and Greet

A year and some months later, I'm finally meeting his friends. His group of high school buddies that played JV soccer together with silly nicknames on their jerseys. What started as a small gathering over dinner, us plus three of them, has ballooned into an eight person affair with an acquaintance who wasn't originally invited (awkward) and another girlfriend (thank god).

If the three potential outfits packed in my bag don't already give it away, I'll come out and say it. I'm nervous. What do they know about me already? How will the conversation flow? Should I buy lots of drinks? And. The one that all the others stem from. Will they like me?

A seems to think so. I guess we will find out.

What would you do if I sang out of tune, would you stand up and walk out on me?

“I know you don’t realize it now, but background becomes very important in a relationship. It could really come between you.”
I shrugged off the advice. What did my mother know anyway? She’d lived in Rochester her whole life, married a man from Rochester, raised kids in Rochester. All in an era when it was expected for women to really make something of herself; create an equal partnership with someone from their class, their upbringing, their morals and values. I grew up knowing I’d marry someone just like she did. My husband’s parents and my parents would be great friends. Our moms would meet for coffee in our hometown. Our dads would go golfing.

And then I met TC. And he broke every expectation I had for a partner. Certain things became important that I never knew I needed. He turned into my best friend. The best advice giver. My protector. My clown. My head-over-heels love affair. He grew up in the antithesis of my household. His parents were both addicts in different ways. His mom would fall asleep on the couch in the afternoon when he was 3 and 4 years old, and leave him to make dinner for himself. His dad would drink too much and hit his mother. His mother disappeared for a few years, and then came back. All this was happening while I sat at a clean kitchen table in suburbia and was made to drink my milk before homework and an early bedtime.

Yesterday I met his mother. He loves her. Of course he does. But I can not help but listen to her talk and judge her based on the stories that I know. “When TC was little, he got scarlet fever. And when I took him to the emergency room, they said, ‘Why did you wait so long to bring him in?! Why didn’t you bring him in at the first signs?!’ As if I would wait to bring my sick son to the emergency room!” But I knew that she probably had. I hated her for it. I smiled at all of her stories, her non stop stories, and acted interested when she went on and on about horror movies. She pestered the waitress for Coors Lite. No Coors? Michelob Ultra. And make sure it’s VERY cold! Is this cold? Did you pull it from the bottom?

Suddenly I pictured myself years from now. At a small, dirty house in Colorado with this woman at Christmas time. Heavy drinking. Smiling along with her stories. “You seen the Exorcist? I own it.” My holidays. My holidays that are usually so bright and cheerful and involve omelets and stockings and my mother apologizing for always giving me something corny like a Yo Yo because, “I just can’t help it.” These things are important to me. How can I give this up?

I know you don’t realize it now, but background becomes very important in a relationship. I haven’t talked to him about it. I don’t know that I will. Somewhere along the line, background became important. I just can’t force myself to look at it yet.

V-Day

Happy nonsense commercial day that unfortunately kind of sort of matters, loves.

(thank goodness it's only one day)

Can't Buy Me Love

“I don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day. It’s stupid, and the 14th is just always the worst day of February, even if it has nothing to do with me being single.”

Here’s the thing. It had everything to do with being single. In middle school, when the popular girls started carrying their roses and balloons and teddy bears through the hallways, I wore pink and pretended like the box of chocolates from my mom made me feel loved enough. In high school I received a few tokens but from a lanky, strange boy who sat alone in the cafeteria and solicited giggles when he approached me at my locker. In college I experienced my first Valentine’s Day with a boyfriend but it came right at the end of the relationship. “If you don’t want to come up for Valentine’s Day, you don’t have to.” “I want to. I think it’ll be good for us.” He showed up at my dorm with a grocery bag filled with candy and Pepperidge Farm cookies; a clear afterthought and a last ditch effort at a failed romance.

This is the year. My year. I’m in love. Seven blissfully happy months in comes the day when most couples hunker down in dimly lit restaurants to sip red wine and spoon feed each other chocolate cake, and the day that I’ve spent 24 times before dismally alone and trying to convince myself that relationships aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

“Valentine’s Day is so lame!” I griped to TC. “Restaurants charge you an arm and a leg for a pre-set menu, they totally screw you out of their real food, and everything is totally overhyped and stupid. Valentine’s Day is SO stupid. Let’s not do anything.” “I totally agree,” he said, of course. “I hate all that fancy, cheesy shit.”

He probably thought he hit the jackpot. A girlfriend who abhors the day as much as any man.

Can I tell you a secret?

I lied.

I want the sappy dinner. I want a card he went to Hallmark and picked out himself because inside it had poorly written lines about love and forever and mush and gush. I want a glass of red wine and a box of Jacques Torres chocolates. I want to be the girl in the office who has beautiful flowers to smile at in between sales reports.

But thus far in our relationship, I have prided myself on not being the girl who needs to be spoiled and doted on and gushed over with materialistic crap. His last girlfriend spent hundreds on her haircuts, thousands on vacations, and made him feel poor and inadequate in the process. “It was all about things,” he told me once. I try so hard not to be her. And I’m not. But part of me wants the things.

He tells me every day that he loves me. He isn’t shy about his feelings, and he never has been. He makes me feel pretty and special and taken care of every single day. He says things like, "At our wedding" and "When we have kids" openly in front of my friends.

So why does a stupid red flower have to show up to prove it? And why do I feel like such a jerk for wanting it?

almost love story

Waking Up

It was late. I was disappointed. He was embarrassed. I tried my best to keep from crying as I stared out the passenger side window out into the drizzly, sparkling night. I had seen a side of him I never thought I'd see. He let me see a side that he never intended to show. He was fighting back tears himself.

Say something. I couldn't.
I don't know what to say. He needed my approval.
You want to leave me? It hurt my heart to even hear him say it.
No. I love you so much. I did. I do. I will.

He looked out over the road, gripped the steering wheel, looked at me quickly, then back at the road. 29 years of shame slid down his cheeks.

I never want to lose you.
You won't.

I come to life when I'm with you.

It's only appropriate...

There are so many!

Continuing with the alcohol and love theme...

A is a sweet, affectionate drunk. He isn't drunk all that often but when he is, he's adorable.

Case in point, last night at a friend's dinner party:

"I love the shit out of you."



(It's cuter than it sounds, I promise.)

Feeling Good

I had always taken pride in the fact that I had never gotten seriously drunk. No real lapses in judgment, no wondering about what had happened the night before, and certainly no nights spent hugging the toilet...

until Friday.

I had taken a big, scary French exam that morning. I had met with two fun work contacts. I had seen my bff from high school for the first time in six months. With two very promising parties on the agenda, I was feeling pretty good. And it was going pretty good...

until we remember I'm a lightweight. One drink (any drink) usually gets me a bit silly. As was the case after my gin tonic at the first party. Silly and happy. At the second party, after a little bit of beer and a little bit of wine, A's coworker convinced me to take a shot. Of vodka. Which was bigger than it should've been. But I was feeling good! Down went the fiery stuff. I'm chatting, dancing, and then WHOOSH. Not feeling good. And he can tell.

Glass of water in one hand, arm around me, we're out the door. Apparently I mentioned to him that one of my friend's commented that we'd get married. We get to his house, more water. I sit on his bed and then I'm up, making my way for the bathroom. He sits on the edge of the tub throughout and gives me mouthwash when I'm done. Back in his room, he tucks me in, a trashcan on my side of the bed. In the morning, he lets me sleep in while he goes out to buy me bread. He makes me breakfast and naps with me on the couch.

I was humiliated, and he tried to make me laugh at myself. I apologized a dozen times, and he shook off each one.

He took care of me, and I love him for it.

"We're lucky."
"I don't feel lucky."
"You don't feel lucky that you met me?!"
"No! I had to go through a lot of shit to get here. I had to meet and spend time with a lot of terrible women before I met you."
"All the more reason to feel lucky now."
"I don't feel lucky. It wasn't luck. I was supposed to end up with you."

Making plans to change the world while the world is changing us

There she was. In a teeny-tiny Viking costume. I shouldn’t have clicked on her name but I did. Now I had an almost-naked visual to go along with his handful of stories about her. It didn’t matter how many times he told me she didn’t support his career or believe in his talent or care about his happiness. All I could focus on was how she made a lot of money and how tan she was and how below that picture of her in her teeny-tiny Viking costume was a comment: “TC likes this.” My stomach rose up in protest.

“We don’t talk,” he had told me once. “She texted me a couple weeks ago to come get some of my stuff and I told her to throw it away. Trust me, I have no interest in keeping in touch with my ex’es.” I had heard this same speech before from E. and then found out a year later he was telling his own ex that he loved her the whole time. And now here was my first red flag from TC. I couldn’t let it go.

“Are you home?”

“No, what’s up?”

“Just wanted to ask you something.”

“What?”

“It can wait, call me when you get home.”

“No, I hate that. What is it?”

I was trembling. I knew he would be so angry. Didn’t I trust him? Why would I snoop into his past? Why would I be digging on Facebook? How did I even know who she was anyway? But it didn’t matter. If I didn’t ask now it would bubble up inside of me, constantly marinating, churning, stewing until one night after a few drinks I’d scream out, “I know you’re still in touch with her! I saw her Facebook picture!”

I tried to explain as rationally as I could. “I clicked on your ex’s profile. I shouldn’t have, but I did and I saw this slutty picture of her that you liked. And it really bothered me.” He began his typically rational speech. They are not in touch. They had an amicable breakup a year and a half ago, and every once in awhile he gets a text from her saying hello. He saw the picture on Facebook of a cute girl in a tiny outfit and he clicked like. That was all. She texted him afterward to say she saw his comment and hoped everything was going well. “We had a good relationship. We broke up over my career, and we both knew it was the best idea. We’re different people now and I don’t really like the person she’s turned into. I don’t like how she treats me or who she’s become, and I’m not attracted her anymore; emotionally, physically, or sexually. At all. But I hope she’s happy.” I had nothing else to say.

When do I start to really believe in this? When do I start to feel secure in this, in us? When he says I’m different, how long until I actually hear it?

He called back half an hour later. I anticipated anger. You know, Lauren, this REALLY pisses me off! But instead I got a quiet voice.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” And I meant it.

The New York Clock

New York functions on a different clock. I’m sure of it. One year here is a month somewhere else. 30 years old here means 23 in another city. Time speeds up, slows down, and stops altogether when in other parts of the world it is just a constant.

TC and I have been together for just over four months. We were “dating” for three of those months, and now we’re “officially” together. Boyfriend and girlfriend. Committed and in love. What I didn’t expect was that once he committed, he would be really committed. All typical-boy fear of words like ‘marriage’ and ‘babies’ and ‘living together’ went straight out the window.

He had a roommate issue last week because I’ve been spending too much time there without paying rent. “If he gives me crap about it, I’ll just move in with you,” he said. My immediate reaction was, Oh no, you won’t!

But why? It’s the timing. Four months isn’t long enough.

Right?

I just went to the engagement party of my brother and his fiancée who have been dating since January of this year. They are perfect together. My parents, who dated for three months before getting engaged, were in attendance.

New York has tainted my relationship-brain. “We have to date for at least a year before we move in together and then another year before we get engaged and then another year before we get married.”

But why?

The rational part of me says it’s all way too soon. And the stupid-in-love girl part of me is looking up one-bedrooms on Craig’s List.

Happiness hit her like a train on a track, coming toward her, stuck, still, no turning back

Three months ago it was, “If I ever get married…”
Two months ago it was, “If we ever get married…”
A week ago it was, “When we get married…”
And then last night.
I was sleeping lightly. I felt a hand on my arm. I rolled over to face him.
“I love you. So much.”
“I love you, too,” I muttered, fighting for coherent words in my swimming, sleepy brain.
“I haven’t been this happy in a really long time.” I finally opened my eyes. “I want to marry you.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.”

I’ve waited almost seven years for this.
It feels like it was worth it.

Me and My Boyfriend

“Listen to me, we’re going to have to have a serious discussion tonight,” TC said. I grew hopeful. “Because you’re getting a little mouthy.”

“Ooooh, is that the discussion we’re going to have? I thought it was going to be a different discussion.”
“The commitment-boyfriend-girlfriend discussion?”
“That’s the one.”

We had just spent the day together; shopping for clothes for him, eating pizza, hugging at every red light. There was this feeling I got as I pushed through the throngs of people on Broadway and I’d feel his hand on my hips, as if to tell me that he was still there. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered as we fell asleep Saturday night. “Promise?”

“I don’t want things to change between us,” he warned. “If we do this… I really love the way things are going right now. I don’t want things to all of a sudden change. And I don’t want to do all the stupid Facebook stuff! I hate that. And if I don’t want to go have brunch with your parents at an outdoor restaurant, I’m still going to tell you that I don’t want to go.”
I grinned. “It’s one excuse after another with you.”
“This is who I am,” he answered more gently. “I’m just warning you.”

I ‘d been watching him and listening to him tell me for three months that he’s hazardous. He could hurt me. He could get hurt himself.

“I know,” I answered quietly. “I don’t need the Facebook stuff. In fact, I hate the Facebook stuff. When you break up they show a little broken heart that says ‘Lauren is now single.’ And when you meet my parents, it won’t be because I need their approval it’ll be because I talk about you a lot and they want to put a face with the name. It’ll be stress free and easy. Okay?” He stared at me hard.
“Okay.” He extended his hand. We shook on it. He walked into the kitchen to get us ice cream and it took me a full minute to realize I was smiling.