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.

Today

You know the awkward feeling the day after a fight? No? It's like, somehow after some heated words, you forget how to interact with a person you know intimately.




That would be me and A today.

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.

The Talk

He got an 800 on the math section of the GRE. It was to be expected. At least, I expected it even when his nerves seemed to get the best of him. What I didn't expect was the turnaround. That I probably should've, but I didn't.

"Are you staying over Friday?"
"I'm intending to... why?"
"Cause we should go out for brunch on Saturday and have that talk I've been putting off."

He was right. He had been putting it off, with his "let's wait until after I take the GRE..." nonsense.

Now, here he is, with his expected perfect score, and his PhD applications to begin. And here I am with my future to ponder over before Saturday (which I have to make a sincere effort to do, since he warned me about "I don't know" answers).

Back to school? Look for a new job? Move somewhere for him? With him?

Truthfully, I don't remember much about our conversation over lunch today - the conversation announcing the date of another more important conversation. I remember lightheartedly making one of those fighting for air gestures. I remember saying that this feels so grown up, and him asking why. I remember telling him that I'd never had to do this before. I remember him telling me that we could be together.

A part of me is terrified. A part of me smiles. Most of me knows I need to do some thinking.

Getting Warmer

Sometimes I think he is getting closer.

“I told my dad about you.”
“Hey, we should take pictures of us while we’re here. We don’t have any pictures of the two of us. Have you already realized that?”
I woke up in the middle of the night last night while I thought he was watching TV but instead he was watching me, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear and resting his hand on my face.

And then sometimes I think we’re right where we were two months ago.
“I can’t spend five nights a week with someone! This is why I can’t have a girlfriend!”
“I don’t think I believe in monogamy.”
I texted him on a Saturday night to ask about our Sunday plans and he canceled with no explanation.

When someone tells you who he is, believe him. Is this it? Is this him? The guy who loves me and wants to be with me but not completely? The guy who has been telling me who he is since day one but is also asking me to stick it out? He says he’s not “there” yet. I wonder if he’ll ever be.

The Effects of Danny and Annie

His parents have been divorced for ten years, and before that shouldn’t have been married at all. “They met at a knife fight when she was 17 and he was 20,” he told me. “I’m pretty sure I was conceived in a parking lot.” It is not the sentiment of someone who really believes in marriage. I, on the other hand, grew up with parents who used to stand hugging in the kitchen when they thought no one was looking. I know marriage as a long-lasting, loving commitment. He knows marriage as a situation of convenience that wears off eventually.

“Can I show you something?” I asked. “This might be totally cheese ball, and you might make fun of me, but to me… this is what marriage is.” He pulled up Danny and Annie on his iPhone. I saw his eyes blinking in the glowing light of the little screen as we watched in silence. He let out a barely audible sigh of surprise when Danny says, “I walked in with you, I walk out with you.”

He told me he thinks this situation is so rare, and happens only when two people really settle and feel lucky to be with anyone at all. “I think you’re very wrong,” I said quietly. His face softened. He watched my eyes for a minute and I could almost see the thoughts churning in his head. And then he let his walls down, just a little, for me. “Or maybe that could be us,” he offers. “But I won’t die on you.”

Postcards

"So where's my surprise?"
"I'm not sure, babe."
"What? Not sure about what?"
"The surprise is not in my hands anymore."
"I'm so confused."

One month into our relationship, I went on a 10-day work trip. Just before I left, I sent him a postcard acquired in Hungary (of all places) - a black and white photo of "je t'aime" scrawled on a wall. It read: "I miss you already!"

After a recent trip to the Phillips Collection, I spied a postcard of the Chagall above. I immediately called him to tell him he'd get a surprise. When? he asked. When you deserve one, I replied.

Four months into our relationship comes another long work trip. I met him for a quick coffee at our cafe before my morning flight. On the walk there I dropped his Chagall postcard in a mailbox. It read: "I think you're wonderful - don't change."*

*Lest you think I'm ever so poignant to come up with such a phrase, think again. Thanks, Josh Rouse.

A "fight"

A and I both need new glasses - his being totally unflattering and mine needing a revamp after six years - so we decided to make a stop at my favorite shop in the city after watching a football (re: soccer) game on Bleecker.

We both thought it might be fun. Or rather, I thought we both thought it might be fun.

He tried on a couple, got frustrated ("I just don't look good in glasses"), and then proceeded to disengage. At first, I attempted to draw him back in - try these ones, I like those. When that didn't work, I went about my business, asking his opinion - this pair or that pair? After ten minutes, I couldn't take it anymore. The stiff posture, the glazed over gaze out the window, the flippant responses. I asked the saleswoman to jot down the style numbers of the two I liked, and we left. He grabbed my hand, and I made no effort to hide my annoyance.

"What was that all about?"
"I'm sorry, I know I was impatient, but you weren't going to buy anything just then. I wasn't going to buy anything just then. The ones you tried on were basically the same. I don't know what to say."
"If I'm going to spend $600 dollars on something that will go on my face for years and years, I want to be sure about it. Next time if you don't want to be somewhere just tell me; don't be a brat about it."
"You're right, you're right. I will."
"It's fine. We're learning each other. Now I know not take you with me when I actually buy a pair in July."

The words came out meaner, more embittered in person, but we laughed (sort of) and walked into Uniqlo. He pointed upstairs, and I let him go off on his own. When he found me again, I was standing in the mile-long fitting room line, armful of clothes. Raised eyebrows and a smile. "I'm in a bad mood. I needed a distraction."

A joint fitting room session, two button downs for him, and two dresses for me later, we were on the train uptown to meet a friend, slightly more upbeat. He didn't make fun of me for forgetting Lincoln Center is on the West Side, and he gladly gulped his wine in the 20 minutes we had before my friend left to catch a show.

Then we had some time alone. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the beautiful weather. Maybe I realized I was a bit of a brat myself. Maybe he didn't want me to be upset with him anymore. We talked it out. We laughed (genuinely).

What "fight"?

Unexpected

"Hey!"
"Hey ... what?"

We were walking down the concourse, holding hands, bright pink duffel over my shoulder.

"Nothing. It's silly."
"No, tell me."

...

It had been a long day in transit.

I had missed my connection in Denver, which meant four hours to kill in an airport that should be cooler than it is. I wouldn't be home until 10:00 with work bright and early the next morning. So I began to scheme.

If I stayed at A's place, I could grab a quick bite. Sleep in. Walk to work. He could pick me up from the airport. Carry the gigantic suitcase I brought back as a favor for the high school best friend. We could spend time together after a long six days apart.

A few book chapters and a couple of white lies later (the family is immigrant-y after all), it was settled. I texted him when I got on the plane, telling him to be early. It would be the first time someone else - not my mom or brother - would be waiting for me.

I was restless the entire flight. When the power went out at the gate in DC and my fellow passengers had to use their cell phones to search the overhead bins for their luggage, I cursed Frontier Airlines for my last row seat. The last to exit the plane, I speedwalked through the terminal, and there, just past security, I could make him out. Wavy brown hair, white undershirt, jeans. I almost skipped before falling into his arms.

...

I made my eyes big and laughed: "I think we're falling in love!"
He shook his head and laughed, too.
"I don't think you're silly."

We continued to walk, and then he stopped and kissed me.

That night, after we had made love, he turned to me.

"You know that thing you said at the airport ...? I agree ... I think you just caught me off-guard. Usually people say things like that at moments like these, but you're not cliche like that."
I smiled.
"I guess not."