"It hasn't been easy to live with you the last couple of weeks."
...or at least something like that. His quote hung over my head all night long, and boldly greeted me when I woke. The details of my workday dulled the edges (and the exact wording), but the sentiment still clings.
It was an important that he tell me that. I knew it to be true, but it needed to be said and he was the one who needed to say it. I have been quiet, sullen, chilly, snarky. I have dragged my feet when heading home, I have looked for diversions to spend time elsewhere. I have not been a pleasant roommate.
I wrestled with his message today. I made a few excuses for myself (work has been very stressful, the kids need a lot of my attention, PMS is a bitch), and then I faced the truth which is, while I have not necesarilly tried to be difficult, I have certainly not made much of an attempt at nice.
When we began down the path toward cohabitation, I realized I knew how to live with him, but he didin't know what it would be like to live with me. Our time spent together from our previous chapters were almost exclusively on his turf. I learned to fit into his life. Over the years, this translated into more than just knowing where he kept the measuring spoons. I compromised my needs for the sake of his. I lost sight of the importance of me because i couldn't bear the thought of failing us.
When we reunited, all of those uncomfortable compromises were left behind. They were part of our past, part of our story, but no longer part of our lives.
And as we began sharing our lives, kids and all, shared turf, same bed every damn night, it was blissful. Really, it was pretty damn great.
But just a few months later, pots and pans in the wrong place, school stuff strewn about the house, and conflicting ideas on home decor leave me with my foot firmly planted in the ground, not necessarily getting my own way, but pouting because I am not.
While I'm not ready to diagnose my disorder just yet, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that perhaps I'm not willing to negotiate how I want the house to look and function because I fear one compromise could lead to another and another and...
We have agreed that ours is a lifelong partnership. I think it's time my subconscious get on board with us.
Monday, March 16, 2015
Saturday, February 14, 2015
Six Date Rule
We reunited. We madly, passionately agreed that we were willing to close the door on our single lives and embark on a journey, a partnership, a lifelong love.
But there was something we had to take care of first...we had to date.
While working at a thrift store at the tail end of my marriage, I encountered a book about dating. I recall flipping through it until I found the subject of sex. It suggested I insist upon six dates from any particular suitor before dropping trou for him. The last time I dated, I was 21 years old, and I was generally eager to spread my legs for a fella for numerous ridiculous reasons, none of which involved my own sexual satisfaction or empowerment. I embraced this new found guideline as my own, if only to surrender control to a rule and avoid the hassle of making healthy decisions for my own good.
The very night we met, sparks flew. A day and a half of text messages led to a lunch date that I didn't want to end. The following night, he invited me to his place for a cocktail...and some couch time. And it was on that couch that I breathlessly stated my intention to maintain my chastity for at least four more meetings.
Twenty minutes later...
When Mark and I both concluded we wanted to hang out for the long haul, he insisted upon six dates before we consummated the relationship. A lot of water had flowed under each of our individual bridges during our months apart. Those six dates would provide an opportunity to know one another again, and push the definition of sex to it's very limit.
Part of the agreement for our reunion was that we would become equal partners. During chapters one and two of our love, I took the back seat in decision making, feeling that my voice didn't really matter as I wasn't able to make much of a financial contribution to our relationship. This time around, my backbone had to be present. We took turns choosing activities, counting down to that final magical night when we could...well...you-know-what.
We climbed walls, we cooked meals, we went to parties a week before they happened, we giggled, we reconnected, we loved. And yeah, we did that too.
Those six dates have come and gone. Continuing to woo one another was put on hold for a bit while we shopped for, bought, and moved into a house. The dust is settling and we will get back out there soon, squeezing deliberate together time into our busy schedules.
Those days and nights together sealed a promise that we intend to stick this relationship out, thick or thin. While it won't always be chocolate and pretty ponies, I'm reasonably certain there will be more laughing at ourselves than gnashing of the teeth. And if most of the tears shed are over cut onions than hurt feelings, I think we'll make this thing work well past our sell-by dates.
But there was something we had to take care of first...we had to date.
While working at a thrift store at the tail end of my marriage, I encountered a book about dating. I recall flipping through it until I found the subject of sex. It suggested I insist upon six dates from any particular suitor before dropping trou for him. The last time I dated, I was 21 years old, and I was generally eager to spread my legs for a fella for numerous ridiculous reasons, none of which involved my own sexual satisfaction or empowerment. I embraced this new found guideline as my own, if only to surrender control to a rule and avoid the hassle of making healthy decisions for my own good.
The very night we met, sparks flew. A day and a half of text messages led to a lunch date that I didn't want to end. The following night, he invited me to his place for a cocktail...and some couch time. And it was on that couch that I breathlessly stated my intention to maintain my chastity for at least four more meetings.
Twenty minutes later...
When Mark and I both concluded we wanted to hang out for the long haul, he insisted upon six dates before we consummated the relationship. A lot of water had flowed under each of our individual bridges during our months apart. Those six dates would provide an opportunity to know one another again, and push the definition of sex to it's very limit.
Part of the agreement for our reunion was that we would become equal partners. During chapters one and two of our love, I took the back seat in decision making, feeling that my voice didn't really matter as I wasn't able to make much of a financial contribution to our relationship. This time around, my backbone had to be present. We took turns choosing activities, counting down to that final magical night when we could...well...you-know-what.
We climbed walls, we cooked meals, we went to parties a week before they happened, we giggled, we reconnected, we loved. And yeah, we did that too.Those six dates have come and gone. Continuing to woo one another was put on hold for a bit while we shopped for, bought, and moved into a house. The dust is settling and we will get back out there soon, squeezing deliberate together time into our busy schedules.
Those days and nights together sealed a promise that we intend to stick this relationship out, thick or thin. While it won't always be chocolate and pretty ponies, I'm reasonably certain there will be more laughing at ourselves than gnashing of the teeth. And if most of the tears shed are over cut onions than hurt feelings, I think we'll make this thing work well past our sell-by dates.
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