This is from my archive folder, written around the end of April.  Three days before ST and I said we loved each other for the first time.

I remember that day, that outfit.  He actually wasn’t quite at my condo when I got home, and I was pissed about that.  I didn’t want to have any time to pace the floors, growing more and more nervous. 

I am amazed that I ever felt this way around him.

I’m wearing the nicest outfit that has graced my cubicle this year.  Black pants that hug my ass and swish the exact amount around my ankles.  Blue button-down shirt that actually fits my body instead of hanging off it.  My favorite black sandals, clicking through the hallways.
 
And all of this is just because someone will be there when I get home today.

I’ll admit, I feel I’m flunking the relationship portion of all of this.  I don’t know what I want, can’t read what he wants.  The minute I label something exclusive and admit somewhere in my dusty brain that I want it to have a future, I become a paranoid, insecure mess.  Which of course is exactly the type of woman people crave to be around. 

I have had a migraine for two days now.  It started in lecture on Thursday.  I drove to ST’s, made it through Target without killing anyone, cleaned up after the dog, and promptly spent my study time moaning in bed.

He came home a few hours later and immediately started tending to my bidding.  Backrub.  No, lighter.  Now brush my hair.  Yes, I was a whiny spoiled brat but damn.  I needed some sort of sensation other than searing pain.

It was raining when we went out to dinner.  Afterwards, I suggested a walk in it.  I wrapped my dress up in one hand, shucked off my shoes, and away we went.

“I wish I’d brought a tape recorder.  We’ve had about five conversations I deemed bloggable.”

“Whatever.  You have perfect memory.”

“Not today.  There was the one where I called you a twat and you resembled that comment…but I’ve forgotten the beginning.”

“Sorry, I didn’t bring the recorder.  I didn’t think you’d be wrong today.”  (A girl just happens to point out that she’s always right and everyone gets up in arms to prove her wrong.  Hurmph.)

Back home, it was back to bed.  Curled up together, it’s right.  It’s where I want to be.

He was up at 3am for work.  When I got up later, I saw the lid to my lunch box was closed.  (With my current schedule, I am working with no fewer than four bags per day.  Almost always my school bag, a clean clothes bag, my sanctuary bag, and a lunch box.)

This was inside:

Everything I want to write is so clichéd.  Except for my surprise.
 
I didn’t expect to feel like this again.
 
My relationships from the past two years have been (mostly) fun.  But they haven’t really been relationships in my mind.  It’s what you call something when fuck buddy gets stuck in your throat.

Emotions were exchanged for pragmatic.  Wants forgotten for needs.  I don’t regret it.  I doubt I’d understand the difference between wants and needs in a relationship so well otherwise.
 
But I had started to wonder if I had somehow broken myself.  Perhaps the record had skipped one too many times.  I am both relieved and annoyed to find that isn’t the case.
 
I’d forgotten how scary it is to give someone my heart.  How exhausting it is to be hurt by little things because I want him to understand me better than that.
 
How wonderful it is when he shows how thankful he is that we met.  How breathtaking it is when he soothes the hurt and makes me better understand myself.

When you interrupt major fooling around with, “I have something important to tell you,” there is a limited amount of acceptable ways to follow it up.  These include:
 
1)       I love you.
2)       I won the lottery and will keep you in school tuition for a dozen Ph.D.s in return for that cute way you scrunch your eyebrows.
3)       It was a false positive.
4)       My parents decided not to visit.
 
I suppose we could think up some more.  But more importantly, there are phrases that are strictly prohibited.  Such as, oh I don’t know, off the top of my head…
 
I didn’t bring any condoms.

“I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone as attractive as you.”
 
What I should have said: Thank you, how sweet.
 
What I said:  You don’t get out much, do you?
 
“You are welcome to come along [and meet my aunt/cousins].”
 
What I should have said:  Thank you, how thoughtful.  Unfortunately, I am busy that day.
 
What I said:  AHHH!  Are you INSANE?  NO!  Why would you SAY something like that??
 
“Is everything alright?”
 
What I wanted to say:  No.  I’m completely overwhelmed here.  We can barely see each other more than once a week and show up for dates hours early or late depending on traffic.  You also seem to possess real emotions and I am evidently a robot with the emotional maturity of a six-year-old.  How the fuck can this work?
 
What I said:  Yes.

She was happy to bring them the check.  She wanted them gone.
 
Not their fault of course, but they had turned into her toughest table of the night.  The kitchen pulled their entrees before their appetizer.  Then the woman had found plastic in her pasta.
 
They had been polite and congenial about the whole matter, but it didn’t help her fluster.  She wanted to close out their ticket, wipe the table, and be one order closer to closing.  Her mascara was starting to weep from the heat.  Every time she spread her hand wide for a tray, pain radiated in an almost delicious manner up her arm.  It felt decedent, to spend energy and attention noticing such a minute issue.
 
She was about to plop the check right in the middle of the table – company policy, plus she wouldn’t be surprised if the woman was paying as she was the one to speak up over the kitchen errors – but found herself blocked by their arms.
 
She stepped back.  They hadn’t noticed her.  They were holding hands across the large blond oak table.  The woman had to lean almost out of her seat.  Thumbs were stroking and their eyes were locked.  The smiles on their faces were naked.

She started to tear up.  Her hand went to her mouth.  All of a sudden they looked so much younger to her.  And she wanted to keep them forever, in her pocket to take out and look at on days she was blue.

“I bet it would be nice to date a woman who is showered when you pick her up for a date.”
 
“I guess.  I wouldn’t know.”  At least both things were said with a smile.

 
Remember the picture of my dirty ankle from a few weeks back?  Well, the last two weekends that has been the state of my ankles when I opened the door for ST.  Scheduling volunteering and dating on the same night is proving a tad difficult.
 
This week I did slightly better.  At least the rug did not have a week’s worth of cat hair ground into it.
 
In my mind, dating a woman who can’t seem to schedule basic hygiene would be a bit off putting.  But he seems pretty content to grab a book or watch TV (I’ve introduced him to House.  My exact words were, “Here.  This is my ideal man.  Consider it research.”) while I make myself presentable.
 
But let’s face it, a lot can be forgiven for a girl who’s dirty in the way everyone thought reading the title.

Remember I mentioned some things coming up in the next few weeks to mess with my schedule?  I worked a twelve-hour day yesterday, I’m taking today off to support the sanctuary in a re-zoning meeting, and my cats all get their dentals tomorrow.

Recently I saw this play again.  It reminded me I had this in the archives somewhere.  It’s dated August 11, 2004, which means it was created prior and that’s when it was transferred to my laptop.  I have a strange feeling, despite my great filing process, that I might have shared it already.  If so, please consider me in re-runs. 

“I love you, you’re perfect, now change.”
 
Somewhere, there’s a compromise.  Isn’t there?
 
Between falling for blue eyes or brown, between asking for love-making to be more attentive or the afterwards to be shorter.  It isn’t always about him calling too frequently, is it?  Or her not reaching over to unlock the car door?
 
At some point, you really do think someone’s perfect, don’t you?  And you don’t want them to change. 
 
I always thought falling in love with someone for their faults as much as their strengths was bullshit.  Perhaps because I couldn’t love W for his, and he almost relished his distaste for mine (I believe, in part, because he was ecstatic to have something to complain about). 
 
Certainly I’ve been called cute for my eccentricities and neuroses from time to time.  But I don’t think anyone’s ever cuddled up due to my feet-skin picking habit. 
 
I’m starting to realize I’ll never be perfect. 
 
I’m always going to overstep the boundaries of “too much mothering” (Do you have enough money for lunch?  Please stop mixing pills and liqueur.  What did the doctor say?).
 
I’m never going to be able to put me before him one hundred percent of the time.  Nor will I always put us before others.
 
Maybe it’s less about finding someone who opens doors and more about someone who doesn’t care if you forget to do the same.  If someone’s going to love me because I’m not perfect, the one big thing they’ll have to accept is that not being perfect drives me absolutely insane.
 
This has all been brought on not so much by the play, but by Love, Actually.
 
The little boy, running through the airport.  In tandem with the crowd seeking the Portuguese woman at the restaurant so the Englishman can ask her hand in marriage right there in front of everyone.
 
Can they really be the same?  Can an adult really love as open and pure as a little kid? 
 
Can you really resign yourself to the possibility of total, utter heartbreak?  Can you really believe that love is worth it?  Another person?  Yourself?
 
I want someone to love me like that.  But can I request it when I’m unsure of my ability to reciprocate? 

I have been so torn about explaining my relationship with TG here for many reasons.
 
1)       To do so isn’t fair to TG. 
2)       To do so isn’t fair to ST.
3)       To give into the feeling that I owed an explanation meant I was no longer writing, but journaling.  And I am uncomfortable with that idea.
4)       In order to explain the entire situation, I would have to delve into TG’s privacy.  I won’t do that period.
 
However, since I’ve made this place very much about my romantic life, it seems some sort of something is in order.
 
If I had my way a long time ago, TG and I would have been an exclusive couple and I never would have met ST.
 
TG and I work so well together that I ignored this little glitch and have been very happy with our relationship.  While I didn’t necessarily want to date other people, it seemed the healthiest thing to do.  I knew that unless he changed his mind, things would eventually end.  It wouldn’t be right to deny myself meeting other people who felt differently.
 
I haven’t written about most dates I’ve had this past year.  They never lasted past one.  (TG in part has set the bar pretty damn high.)  It seemed cruel to use them as fodder for my blog.
 
Enter ST.  He made it to the second, third, fourth…
 
Though it was obvious he wanted it, there was no way ST would bring up exclusivity with all the issues he would be asking me to accept.  But it was hindering us.  He wasn’t going to be able to open up and trust me without it.  And the same went for me; feeling I had to hide parts of my life made me close up about everything else.
 
So, I’m taking a chance.  This is what I think is best for me.  However unhappy TG is with this turn of events, he admits, “it’s essentially a situation of my own making.”
 
One thing ST will have to accept is that TG is still a part of my life.  I will not let such a great friend go without a fight.  TG has indicated he wants that as well.  Yet another reason why he is one my most favorite people on earth. 
 
TG, thank you so much.  For your humor, patience, strength, and support.  Thank you for being careful with my heart.  I am so lucky that you came into my life.

“Something you said Saturday night confused me.”
 
“Oh?”
 
“You mentioned how I am different from other women because I do not demand 10,001 commitments.  And you made it sounds like a compliment.”
 
“Maybe demand is the wrong word.  I have been trapped before.”
 
“Trapped?”
 
“Yeah, like when one day it’s going to the movies and the next she’s asking what I want for our 50^th wedding anniversary.  What we want to name the second kid.”
 
“I see.  Because I had been thinking yesterday.  I was thinking that maybe…I…didn’t want to…date…(cough)…other people.  And I was thinking that you would like that.  But then I remembered what you said and I wasn’t sure anymore.”
 
“I would like that.  I would like that a lot.  I just don’t feel I have a right to ask that because I can’t offer anything more right now.”  *
 
“But you’re never going to be able offer anything more.  This is it.”
 
“True.”
 
“So…it seems either we can make it work the way things are or we can’t.”
 
“A fair assessment.  It would be nice to know you only want to spend time with me.  It would be a relief that you were saving your time for me.”
 
“….”
 
“….”
 
“….”
 
“….”
 
“…I’m trying to say something.  The commitmentphobe in me is holding back.”
 
“I figured.  I heard the cough.”  **
 
“So I think…maybe that’s what I want to do.”
 
“I’ve got a warm fuzzy feeling right now.”
 
“Are you sure that’s not a pit in your stomach?”
 
“No.  It’s definitely higher.”
 
“Good.”
 
*He works insane hours, and shift to boot.  He has mentioned several times that he thinks it might lighten up after this or that, but finally on Saturday I cut through the bullshit and got him to admit he loves his job so much there will always be something.
 
**I get this throat tickle when talking about relationships.  I call it my commitment phobic cough.  I also flap my hands around like a penguin attempting flight; you just can’t see it over the phone.