Reason #17 Why I Should Live With My Boyfriend

He's been sick lately, and i've had things to take care of in my own apartment, so i haven't been able to take care of him every day.

snails

Every time it rains, these little yellow snails come swarming out of nowhere and crowd onto our sidewalk. I never see them in the grass or on the flowers. I only see them on the sidewalk, after the rain.

I usually see two or three. Sometimes, a careless person will step on one, and i'll see the shell fragments and slime squished on the edge of a stair.

Fifty snails. Or seven. Math is not my strong suit.

Yesterday, there were TONS of them, all over the stairs and sidewalk. There was one cluster of like, fifty snails of various sizes and shades of yellow. I have never seen that many of them all at once.

I only see this kind: the little mustard-y yellow-brown with the black racing stripe. I've never seen any other ones. They never stay for more than a few hours. I go home for lunch somewhere around 1 or 2 pm, and i leave work for the day at 5. When i'm there for lunch, there are snails. When i'm home from work, there are none.

Snails are cute, sure. And they're slow-moving, and their shells are pretty and fun to decorate with, and they are delicious. Yes, i've eaten snails. Twice. Once in France, and once in Spain. In Spain, they prepare them very simply, steamed or boiled with seasonings, and you just suck them out of the shell. They are very tiny, and the method of cooking usually leaves their heads poking out of the shells, their tiny faces frozen in a series of silent screams. Spanish snails are pretty upsetting to eat. French snails, on the other hand, are baked or roasted in a thing like a muffin tin, each snail in its own little compartment, and they are neatly tucked into their shells and covered in butter and herbs. You eat them with a fork, and you never have to see their faces. This way is much better.

I have to confess, however, that i fibbed a little when i said that snails are delicious. The truth is that, much like octopus, snails don't have much flavor beyond what they're cooked with. This is another reason to prefer the French method: they mostly taste like melted butter and herbs.

But these little guys are not for eating. I just like to watch them enjoy the sunshine.

elephants

When i was younger, i used to collect collections.

I have been a huge nerd for my entire life, and when i was younger i used to think that if i had some cool "thing", i would become cool by default.

Having only a very tenuous grasp of the concept of "coolness" and of what things could be labeled cool, i decided that a really awesome collection of some kind would really seal the deal for me. The trouble is, i could never decide which collection was the coolest one. (That wasn't really the trouble. But it was the thing that precipitated this story.)

I tried collecting stamps, keys, coins, rocks, pieces of wood, stuffed animals, old books, beads, erasers, safety pins, buttons, shells, sea glass, and marbles. (This is not a complete list.) Please take note of the lack of coolness for basically every item on the list. And lest you be tempted to argue, thinking that some of these things sound like they might make really impressive collections, allow me to disenchant you. I was young, and had no money, and my town had extremely limited access to everything but soybean fields. So my collection of, for example, stamps, was not some colorful album full of rare, expensive pieces of miniature postage art. It was more an envelope full of regular stamps that we had recently received. Our exchange students did afford me access to some international stamps, but by and large my collection lacked value, interest, and diversity.

"I meant what I said,
And I said what I meant.
An elephant's faithful
One hundred percent!"

The weird thing about collecting is that you'll find something you like, pick up maybe half a dozen really awesome representations of that one thing, and then suddenly everyone you've ever met starts inundating you with more of that thing, because they want to help you with your collection. While this is really nice and helpful, i tended to be pretty fickle with my collections and too nice to tell people that, so when someone came up to me in the church parking lot with a handful of used stamps, i didn't know how to tell them that i wasn't really collecting stamps anymore. And i tend not to throw things away, especially when they were gifts, so my room is often cluttered with things i never wanted belonging to collections i am no longer interested in. Every year or so, i purge, but things still seem to pile up somehow.

This brings us to the elephants.

I really do like elephants. I think they look majestic and solemn and beautiful, and the little ones are insanely cute. They're generally considered faithful, responsible, patient, and lucky. Maybe that's why Dr. Seuss's Horton, who took care of someone else's egg through terrible winter storms and who almost died protecting people too small to be seen, was an elephant.

Anyway, i started collecting elephants some time in middle school, i think. And after a while, though i still liked them and would occasionally buy elephant things, i wasn't really interested in my collection.

And yet, it grows.

When my roommate went on a trip, the present she brought back to me was a hand-carved elephant (with a baby elephant inside! Insane!) I hadn't said anything about my elephant collection to her; she had just seen it in my room and decided to contribute. My mom bought me elephant earrings one year for Christmas. My sister gave me a whole family of bright orange elephant figurines.

But my brother has been the biggest supporter of my collection over the years. A few years ago, just as my collection fever was starting to wane, he gave me an elephant figurine the size of a cat. Then he went on a trip to Luray Caverns in Virginia and brought me an elephant carved of glossy gray stone. When he went to Italy, he brought me a glass elephant. When he went to a toy store, he brought me a plastic elephant.

This past weekend, at my sister's graduation party, Adam brought me a jade elephant. He walked up to the table where i was picking crabs, placed it in front of me without a word, and sat down.
"Oh, wow!" i said, trying to figure out if he was giving it to me or just showing it to me. "This is pretty sweet!"
"Some Asian lady was selling these in the hospital, and it was cheap, so I picked one up," he said nonchalantly, and then started eating crabs. (It was, in fact, a gift for me. Adam is thoughtful and sweet, but doesn't like to actually say out loud anything that might indicate that fact.)

Reasons to Live With my Boyfriend

I've been posting individual list items on this topic for a while now. Some of them were humorous, but all were serious, in that we both have really terrible roommates.

However, i am currently paying $400/month in rent, and my utilities are only about another hundred. You can't beat that deal in the Boston area, unless you want to live in a rat-infested shoebox in a bad neighborhood. His rent is a little higher than mine, but still pretty good. I recently saw a one-bedroom apartment advertised for $1100/month, not including utilities. Next spring, i will be starting my student teaching, which will involve one whole semester of full-time, unpaid teaching. I'm looking for federal grants and part-time work, but i'll mostly be living off of my savings. Unless i find an insanely cheap apartment (like, less than $500/month including utilities) by September, there's no way i can fork up first/last/security and pack up again. It just won't be worth it.

But the time has come. John and i have reached a place in our relationship where we need more time for one another, need more attention from one another, but we can't always give it. He gets home at 3:00 and spends a few hours doing laundry, or eating, or doing the chores his roommates haven't, or lesson planning. I get home at 5:00 and spend a few hours cooking, cleaning, and doing homework. Once rush hour traffic has settled down, he heads over to my town for a choir rehearsal. Then i head to a 4-hour class. By the time we are both done with our day, all we have the energy to do is fall asleep, so that he can get up at 5:30 and get to school in time.

We see each other almost every day, but we spend very little time together. One of us is always in the middle of something: i am doing homework, or he is paying bills, or i haven't eaten all day and am too hungry to think straight, or he is talking to his parents about his dad's health, or he is looking at apartments and i am doing laundry. Even the weekends are usually filled with all the errands we didn't have time to do during the week.

This is the point in the relationship when most people would get married, but we've only been together 13 months, and we've really only known each other for about 17. We still need to find a church that we can go to together. We still need to finish our masters' programs. Have you ever moved in with someone who was a close friend, and within two months you could barely stand the sight of them? We need to make sure that doesn't happen with us. We've seen many, many, many couples who jumped into marriage, and while they married the right person, their speed put unnecessary strain on the relationship and they are now struggling and doubting. We have the rest of our lives to be married. We can take our time with the steps in between.

In the meantime, we miss each other. We need a mutual place that we can come to. We need to do the hard work of orienting our lives around one another. We need to share the space in the refrigerator, in the closet, in the garage, in the bathroom. We need to spend Saturday morning in bed, snuggling and having tickle-fights, because no one needs to get up and go home to do laundry. The laundry is right here, and we can put a load in the washer and get right back in bed. We need to argue about whose turn it is to buy milk, about which direction to hang the toilet paper, about which dishes go in the dishwasher and which are hand-wash only.

You say that your heart is mine. This, then, is love: i have learned to be at home in you, and in so doing, i have found myself at home in me.

first love

I once spent a year of my life in love with someone who called me "buddy". True fact.

"Jacob" was amazing. He was handsome, and kind, and funny. He was in the Army. He was smart, and passionate, and mature. He loved Jesus. He loved his family. He loved burgers. It couldn't have been more perfect.

I started spending time with Jacob after i broke up with "James" in my freshman year. We became friends instantly, and i fell in love with him in a matter of days. Jacob was a very practical, sheltered boy (he had been homeschooled) who didn't want to date while he was in college, as he was afraid girls would distract him. I didn't let that deter my dreams of marrying him, though. I was prepared to wait.

I still think that, if he hadn't transferred to a school in Virginia, we would have gotten together sooner or later. He liked me, he just didn't really know what to do about it. But he transferred, and we kept up a close correspondence for a whole semester. But near Christmas break, we drifted apart. At last, i accepted that it wasn't meant to be, and i let go just in time to make the mistake of giving Casey a chance.

Looking back, i'm glad we never got together. He wouldn't have liked me drinking and swearing, and i wouldn't have liked him being a bad speller and a homophobe. We're great as friends, but for anything more than that, it would have been a disaster.

Secret Santa

Yesterday was our office Secret Santa gift exchange/Christmas potluck. Through a bizarre turn of events, i somehow ended up with two gifts (no, i didn't rig the drawing. I swear. In fact, i almost got left out of the gift exchange all together. I swear i didn't rig it. Shut up.)

Anyway, one gift was a gift card to Amazon, which was awesome. The other one was a framed photograph of me.

Let me explain, because that sentence comes nowhere near the glorious awkwardness of this gift.

My Secret Santa took this photo from my Facebook:

"No, don't take a picture! Gah, i look so ugly!"
Just kidding. This was from my senior photoshoot.

He then took a photo of himself and photoshopped it like this:

"Friends are the Family you Choose".

Once my gasping laughter had subsided, he explained that the real gift was the frame.
"Girls like frames."
". . . girls like frames?" i asked, confused.
"Yeah. Girls like frames. I had a girlfriend once. I know what they like."

I really wanted to write a funny punchline to go with that, but as Emily once told me, "Sometimes the facts need no commentary." This is my life.

six months

Today marks six months that i have been dating my boyfriend. No, it is not our "six month anniversary". Anniversary means the annual recurrence of a significant event. You can't have an anniversary until at least a year has gone by. And no, it is not our "monthiversary", because that is a stupid non-word, no matter what Urban Dictionary tells you.

"Overzealous". Even Urban Dictionary thinks you're dumb.

But six months isn't nothing. That's half a year. That's a whole summer and part of the fall. That's half of my first semester in grad school and half of his first semester as a teacher. That's him directing three shows and me taking on a real job. That's me meeting his family and both of us coming up with excuses to avoid my family. (Kidding. Sort of.) That's me teaching him to knit, him giving me something to write about, me introducing him to the deliciousness of dried apricots, him buying me absurd amounts of flowers. That's both of us moving into our own apartments and becoming real, (mostly) self-sufficient adults.

There's this kid who works in my office and has a crush on me. He is also in the fall musical, for which John is the musical director, so he knows us both. This kid (we'll call him Tad) will often chat/flirt with me while he does some tedious task like stuffing envelopes. Tad often asks questions about my relationship. Recently, he asked me if John makes me a better person. I said that he did. Tad asked how.

When i was younger, i used to sing all the time. In the shower, while reading, while driving, while cooking, while doing laundry, while doing homework. I'd walk around the house singing, or wander in the backyard singing. I sang constantly. But when i got older and left the house, i discovered that this was a weird thing to do. And then i went to college, and between the re-affirmation of the weirdness of that habit and the personal devastation of my parents' divorce, i lost the desire to sing.

Three and a half years went by. I sang when required, in chapel worship services, and occasionally i'd absentmindedly chime in to whatever was playing on my iPod. But by and large, the music was gone from my heart. I was kindly coerced into joining the worship team on my church (church people are really good at friendly coercion), but i sang out of obligation and guilt, not joy.

Then John came along and it was like the sun came out from behind a cloud.

I started singing again because the joy had been returned to my life. But when John told me again and again how much he loved to hear me sing, i began to sing for him.

I also rediscovered my silliness. From about the age of ten onward, i took myself very seriously. They say that those who will be young when they are old must be old when they are young, and when i was a child, i was often called an "old soul". Plus, you know how every group of friends always has an anchor, one rational person to keep things stable? That was me in high school. Being the oldest child and the most mature of my friends combined to make me believe that my stability was one of the best things i had to offer. When i started dating, boys would generally tell me (sometimes sincerely) that my steadiness and maturity were some of the things that had attracted them to me. (They probably didn't even notice that i had huge boobs. Teenaged boys are usually far more interested in serious, sincere girls than their shallow, goofy friends. The fact that i was a C cup when all of my friends were nearly As was just a coincidence.) And then there was the divorce, and i had to be a parent for my siblings, and then i was in college and had to achieve things there, and then i moved into my new apartment and had to be the "dad" all the time.

Except for the occasional sugar-high, therefore, i was serious pretty much all the time. And then i started dating John, and he is absolutely ridiculous. I could create a whole separate blog just to tell stories about John. Let's just say that, while it has been well-established that i can't be left unsupervised or taken out into public, John is no better. We sort of take turns being the other person's caretaker.

But that's the thing: he showed me that silliness does not necessarily equal immaturity or irresponsibility. You can be a fully-functional adult and still be carefree and goofy. I still pay my bills on time. I still go to work every day and am productive. I still complete my homework assignments, wash my dishes, and take care of my cat. I just do it while stubbornly taking a detour to walk in the dirt, or loudly singing nonsense ad-libbed songs, or wrestling John back into bed so i can have a few more minutes in his arms before he has to leave.

In so many ways, John has brought joy into my life. He has helped me rediscover parts of myself that i thought i'd put away for good. In the last six months, i have been happier, healthier, and more fulfilled than i can remember being at any point in the last eleven years. And if we break up tomorrow, i will still be a better person for having known him.

In only six months, he's made me a better person, and he's done so in a way that ensures that my self-improvement and growing happiness will continue long after he is gone (if we break up, which i'm certainly not anticipating at this point). And if, somewhere far down the road, we get married, i know that my life will continue to improve because of his presence in it. He hasn't changed me. He has made me more "me", a better and truer and more grounded version of myself.

Being with him is easy. And not easy in the sense that there's no work involved. It's easy the way that writing poetry is easy: even when i'm sweating blood because i've spent the last three days trying to fix the meter in one line, it never crosses my mind that this is difficult or boring. And even if i wanted to, i couldn't stop writing poetry. It's just something that i do, something that i can't imagine not having in my life. It's worth the effort, and even the toughest parts are euphorically enjoyable.

Here's to the next six months. And the six after that, and the six after that, and the six after that . . .

Marry Your Best Friend

Charles and i met for the first time when we were both still in diapers, but it wasn't until 4th or 5th grade that our friendship really began. We got off to a bit of a rocky start (when we were six, i punched him in the stomach and he cried, and then i told my four-year-old brother to headbutt him). And when we started spending more time together, in 4th and 5th grade, we were just entering the "opposite sex has cooties" stage of development. He spent a lot more time with my brother than with me, and i spent more time with his sister (who was a good three or four years younger than me) than with him.

After completing 5th grade, Agelseb left public school and began homeschooling with us. This is when she and Charles began to be friends. Their friendship was likewise hampered by the gender differences, but by about 7th grade we had all gotten over that. Coincidentally, it was about 7th grade that Charles discovered girls.

Being one of the few girls that Charles never developed a crush on, i ended up being his confidant for many years. He would go through ups and downs with various girls, sometimes liking five or six at once, and totally without hope that any of them would ever consent to be his girlfriend.

In high school, he went through a series of extremely short-lived relationships, including one that lasted less than 12 hours.

In high school, he also developed a crush on Agelseb.

Inconveniently, it was the year that she moved onto the boat. Even more inconveniently, she was only interested in him as a friend.

Charles' crush lived on, though it would wax and wane depending on whether some other girl had distracted him temporarily. We all remained friends, despite sundry awkwardnesses associated with hormones and emotions, and when i graduated from high school and took a year off, Agelseb and Charles grew closer than ever.

The summer after my freshman year, i lived at home again. Agelseb and Charles and i spent lots of time together that summer, but i was beginning to feel a pull from the World. I felt restless and unhappy in my hometown, and they did not share that feeling. We didn't fight about it or anything, but we all understood that i wouldn't be spending much time there in the future.

Two summers later, i was living on campus in Quincy and working a summer job. Agelseb visited a few times, and once she vented for nearly two hours about her frustrations with Charles. I was not the least bit surprised when she told me that she was in love with him. At the beginning of the fall semester, Charles came up to visit us, and a little clever managing on my part had them agreeing to date each other that very weekend.

Their relationship underwent some weird adjustments at that time. For example, we'd all been friends for years, and thought nothing of cuddling on a couch, or even sharing a bed if necessity dictated. Charles had shared Agelseb's bed at the beginning of the trip, but once they decided that they should date, he moved to the couch. As friends, it was totally normal to say "I love you", but once they started dating that stopped abruptly. Charles didn't want to say "I love you" until they'd been dating for at least six months.

However, they successfully navigated the roadblocks and maintained a tender and loving (and combative) relationship for two years before they broke up.

I don't yet know if they'll ever get back together. What i do know is that their friendship, while initially making dating awkward, enabled them to get through a lot of difficulties. It also made it easier for them to coexist after the breakup. They're at the same school right now, and neither of them really knows anyone else yet. For better or for worse, they're all they've got.

Love comes and goes. Friendship is forever.

Why I Can't Go Out In Public

Today, my boyfriend and i went out to lunch to celebrate five months of not trying to kill each other. Or at least, of not succeeding in our attempts. And also because i was hungry and it was lunch time.

While trying to demurely sip my miso soup, my hand started to tremble, because i was super hungry and i get shaky when i haven't eaten enough. Plus there's a tiny tremor in my hands already so being hungry makes it way worse.

Google images

So instead of returning the spoon to the bowl and waiting for my hands to stop shaking, i tried to bring the spoon to my mouth super fast before i spilled the soup. But it was one of those huge Asian soup spoons so there was a lot of soup and i couldn't take it all in one bite. Plus it was still really hot, and when it touched my tongue my hand jerked violently and soup sprayed across the table (most of it landing miraculously in the bowl). Then i started laughing and accidentally spit out a piece of seaweed. As my boyfriend looked at me sympathetically (no doubt wondering how big of a jerk it would make him to break up with me because he suspects that i am mentally handicapped), i gave him sad puppy-dog eyes and said, "You know the worst thing about what just happened? It's not the first time that this exact thing has happened to me in this restaurant."

Then we were walking back to my office and had to take an alternate route because there was some road/sidewalk work going on. I didn't notice it right away and almost walked into the giant patch of dirt and loose rubble and traffic cones. John pulled me away (like you do with a small, not-very-bright child) and said, "Don't walk in the dirt!" (He said it in a cheery, warning way. Not yelling. You can't tell the difference when you don't have vocal nuances.)

I tried to say that i didn't mind walking in the dirt, but somewhere between my brain and my mouth those words got tangled up in my pigheaded streak and manifested themselves as "But i WANT to walk in the dirt," and i let go of his hand and took one step on the dirt and then went back. Again like a small, possibly mentally handicapped child.

He just looked at me and said, "You only did that because I told you not to, didn't you?"

I glanced down coyly. "Maybe. Yes. Maybe."

And then when we were outside of my office, standing on the (very public, high-traffic) sidewalk, i tried to unzip his pants without him noticing.

It really is a miracle that he hasn't dumped and/or killed me yet.

Reasons Why I Love My Boyfriend for $500, Please

This is an actual, real-life transcript of a Facebook chat we had today:

Him: but I am alive.
Me: yay!!!!!
please don't die
like, ever
at least not until after me
because who is going to play with my boobs if you die?
Kate.
That's who.
and if you die and leave me alone with kate i will fucking kill you
and don't even try to tell me i can't kill you if you are dead because you really ought to know me better than that by now
also i need a nap and i think i'm slightly hung over and i really need to pee
but people keep coming in and playing beautiful piano music so it's okay
Him: ohh talent show . . . you should be the simon judge.
Me: i'm not judging the show, just the auditions
but ben is a judge for the show
and i appreciate your ability to gloss right over all of my crazy, figure out what the hell i am actually talking about, and respond rationally
Him: you said boobs, so everything else melted away.
i like your boobs.
Me: hahahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
you're my favorite

UPDATE (this was through text, not FB):
Me: So this girl in my office just told me that you need to buy me a ring chop-chop. And i said we've been dating for four months. And she said oh. Well you look like you've been dating for four years.
Him: Hehehehehehe.
Me: At least she didn't say it felt like four years*
Him: Good point. I think we should just get everyone else fake rings**
Me: I think we should do a fake proposal in chapel. Interrupt the service to have you drag me on stage and go down on one knee.
Him: Or just go down?
Me: It's like you read my mind.***

* Recently, someone caught me looking up engagement rings online. FOR A FRIEND. And they made a cutesy comment and i said "Um. We've been dating for four months." And she said, "Really? Only four months? It feels like longer." Which confused me, because why do other people feel like they are in my relationship?
** We have an elaborate scheme involving fake engagement rings and free cake samples. And by "an elaborate scheme" i mean "several elaborate schemes". And while some of them do indeed involve cake, some of them involve revenge. And some are just for shits and giggles.
*** Because no joke, that was exactly what i thought when i pressed "send" on that text message.

all for love

I'm an odd mix of cynicism and romance, as you've probably gathered from the posts so far. But this post will be a departure from the norm. In this case, romance totally trumps cynicism.

These are wonderful people and they are definitely worth a dollar.

http://www.marrymeemily.blogspot.com/

Emily is one of my dearest friends. Even if you don't necessarily support either of them, you should still give money so i can wear a pretty dress and give an embarassing toast at their wedding. I promise i'll post a funny and touching (and probably slightly cynical) story about it!

falling

he tells her that she's beautiful
and she ducks her head and smiles
she knows that he means it
but she can't quite believe it
she doesn't see it for herself

some people have a way with words
she has a way of being
there's a light that shines within her
and it sets his skin on fire
some people have a way with words
but she doesn't have the words to say
that she's feeling something between like and love

the moon mimics her tonight
it smiles gently down
as it hides coyly behind
a cloud gliding by
and he gazes at the glow

some people have a way with words
she has a way of being
there's a light that shines within her
and it sets his soul on fire
some people have a way with words
but she doesn't have the words to say
that she's feeling something between like and love

he hears music when he's around her
her smile is a melody
as days melt into weeks
all she can see is him
and all the things they've left unsaid can wait

some people have a way with words
she has a way of being
there's a light that shines within her
and it sets his heart on fire
some people have a way with words
but she doesn't have the words to say
that she's feeling something between like and love
there's not a real word for it
but it's real enough to her
she is falling
oh, she is falling
falling for him

vocabulary rant

I'm going to have to take some time before my rant to set up some history. Those of you who are familiar with the "four loves" can skip this part and start at the asterisk. For the rest of you, hang tight. I'll make it quick.

Much has been made in the Christian community of the different loves. It's a really cool concept that is based on two things: Greek and the complexity of human emotions.

Basically, there are four different kinds of love, each with its own word (in Greek). There is storge, or affection. It's based on familiarity and companionship, and has been compared to the love of a parent for a child, or of siblings for one another. It's not based on commonalities or shared experiences, but on becoming accustomed to another person's presence in your life.

The second type is philia, or the love of friendship. This is based on commonalities and shared experiences. In fact, Lewis himself once said that friendship is based on the moment when one person looks at another and says, "You too? I thought I was the only one!"

Eros, romantic love, is not (according to Lewis) the same as sexual love, but the distinction is meaningless for the purposes of our discussion. Eros desires a romantic connection with its object, whether you define "romantic" as sexual, emotional, or both.

And finally, we have agape, which is love pure, free, and unconditional. It is the love of God for people, and Lewis says that it is the love that all Christians should strive to show one another.

* So here's the thing: in ancient Greece, you could be hanging out with your friend and say, "Hey, buddy, I philia you" (or however the grammar works), and they would know that you meant that you loved them with the love of friendship. In modern America, we just say, "I love you!" when our friends say or do something that reminds us of why we are friends with them in the first place.

You could tell your mom that you storge her, you could tell your kids that you agape them, and you could tell your significant other that you eros them.

But what if you and your significant other (a) speak English and (b) are not at the point of saying "I love you" yet? There are moments with John where i want to say that i love (philia or storge) him, but i don't want him to misinterpret that as me saying that i am in love with (eros) him. Like isn't strong enough, but love is too strong. So usually i just kiss him, and then we end up making out, which is great. But i like to use my words.

The other part of my frustration is that i am falling in love with him. I'm falling hard and fast. And it's scary and wonderful and strange and fun and confusing and crystal clear. When i'm with him, i think, "This is right. This is how it's supposed to be." I'm not quite ready to drop the L-word (or the E-word, if we're using the Greek), but i know that it's coming.

In the meantime, i guess we can just keep making out. I just wish i had better words for what is happening to my heart when we do.

never settle

My new tattoo is about a week old on my skin, and about four years old in my head.

Some time during my freshman year of college, i think around spring break, my mom and i had a conversation about boys. I don't remember anything about this conversation except that it concluded with her saying, "Don't ever settle."

At that time, i was thinking about getting a tattoo, but couldn't decide what i wanted. I would draw doodles (usually birds) or write slogans on my skin with Sharpies (usually on my arms, because they were easiest), trying out colors and sizes and designs, but nothing seemed quite right. I tried a few variations of "never settle", but somehow it didn't quite fit. I eventually settled on the swallow tattoo that was the subject of my last post, and moved on.

I wasn't planning to get another tattoo. I still had some ideas that i liked, but nothing that seemed quite as right as the swallow.

I kept on thinking about the idea of settling, though. I thought about what it meant to settle, and what kinds of situations i had settled in before. I thought about settling romantically, academically, professionally, and spiritually.

I thought about boys i had dated and why, and determined that i would not settle for anything other than what i wanted or deserved ever again. And then i settled. Twice in a row.

I thought about classes and assignments where i should have done better but instead chose to slack off, and determined that i would never again settle for less than what i was capable of. And then i slacked off. In too many classes to mention.

I thought about the job i really wanted and what i would have to do to get it, and determined that i would let nothing get in my way. And then -- well, you can probably guess where this is going.

I spent the first three years of college settling in pretty much every area of my life. I looked for "good enough", instead of holding out for "best". Understand, i'm not trying to disparage the people in my life or the experiences i had or the places i worked. I'm just saying that anything that isn't what you really want is settling, even if it is objectively "better" than your heart's desire. A job that pays a million dollars an hour is settling, if what you really want to do is teach public school. Marrying the world's most perfect man is settling, if you're not really in love with him. Maintaining a perfect 4.0 GPA through college is settling, if you're not passionate about your studies and don't feel that you're getting a full and well-rounded experience.

All of this reflection and determination and settling culminated in the relationship with Casey, where i hung on for over a year because i thought that this was the best thing i could expect. My friend "Ben" argued with me, saying, "Right now, you think you're eating steak. But actually, it's cat food. And you think it's delicious, because you've never had steak before. But one day, you'll have real steak, and you'll be like, 'Why was I eating this shit for so long?'" Eventually, finally, i ended things with Casey, and promptly made the catastrophically bad decision to give my virginity to Theo. More settling. Like i mentioned in the earlier post, i had not had the sex that God wanted for me. I had settled for something less.

My best friend "Sue" and i actually made similar bad decisions on the same night, and talked about it quite a lot over the next few weeks. Although the decisions themselves were similar, the histories leading up to those decisions were very different. However, we were both settling. Sue, knowing nothing of the phrase from my mom that was still bouncing around in the back of my head, said to me, "Let's make a pact. You and i have spent the last three years settling for less than what we want and deserve. Let's make this year different. I think our slogan for 2010-2011 should be 'never settle'."

Of course, i agreed.

A few weeks later, i was reading some cheap celebrity magazine. I don't remember which one, but probably US Weekly. Don't judge. They had a section on tattoo placement, and explained that a rib cage tattoo is extremely painful and extremely significant. Part of the significance comes from the pain; if it is really worth getting, it's worth suffering for. Additionally, because the ribs protect your heart and lungs, a tattoo there is basically sheilding the center of your life force. Every heartbeat and every breath will reinforce the message inked forever on your skin. Plus, it's kind of an intimate area, so if someone is going to be seeing or touching it, it's going to be someone who is very important and special to you. I remember curling my arm instinctively around myself, just below my breasts, and inadvertently flashing back to the last person who had touched me intimately (Theo). I resolved again that the next person to touch me there would not be someone i was settling for.

And another week after that, i was sitting in chapel. I don't remember what the message was, only that it was really speaking to me in a lot of ways. I think it was something about being all that you can be. At one point, what the speaker said was so poignant and appropriate to the moment that Sue texted me (yes, we text in chapel) and said, "Never settle!"

At that moment, i felt God sit next to me and whisper, "That's going to be your next tattoo."

I whispered back, "God, i'm not getting another tattoo. Remember? I only ever wanted this one."

And He looked at me and whispered, "Really? You're going to argue with ME? This is going to be your next tattoo."

And i whispered, "Yeah, but . . . Oh. Yeah. Okay."

It took a few months until i had the ready cash for it, but now i have this tattoo forever. The text was not a font that the guy had. It is my own handwriting. I liked the idea of inscribing those words on my flesh with my own hand (even though technically someone else did the actual inscribing).

This image, these words, this idea, i've been carrying with me for a long time. And now i will carry them with me forever.

purity vs. abstinence, part 3 (pure sex)

Now i have come full circle. Two nights ago, John and i had sex.

We talked and prayed about it beforehand. We are in a committed, monogamous relationship. We both talked about our needs and fears, and we both talked about past relationships. It was only my second time ever having sex (and the first time almost didn't even count), and it was his very first time. We used protection, but we also talked about what we would do if we did get pregnant. We made sure that we were both ready, and then we decided to let it happen naturally. We fell asleep after midnight, and somehow, we both woke up around 4am and were ready to go.

It was still brief and a little awkward, as is to be expected. But i was not horrified when i got up in the morning. I am not now afraid or ashamed. I do not have vague feelings of guilt like i did with Theo. I am not worried about the consequences.

I am in a fair way to fall for this guy big time, and i don't think that sex with him was a mistake or a sin. I think that it was a good thing. Maybe i'm wrong. It certainly wouldn't be the first time i've been wrong about something.

But he took me to get Plan B (there was a mishap with the condom and we are all about better safe than sorry), and he paid for it (that shit is expensive). And he checked up on me later that evening to make sure i wasn't suffering any unpleasant side effects. He's a good guy, and we care about one another. And he takes care of me. And i let him, which is not something i do often. I am fiercely independent, to the point that i often get myself in trouble. But i let him take care of me.

I wear my purity ring with pride. It's not an obvious purity ring, like the ones that say "True Love Waits" or have hearts and crosses on them. It's a rose.

When i had sex with Theo, when i bought my new ring and started to seriously reconstruct my concept of purity, i remembered something my mom told me on that Purity Weekend Adventure so many years ago. She said that i was like a flower, with lots and lots of petals. And she said that every time i do something with a guy, it removes some petals. If i hold hands with a guy, that's a petal. If i make out with him, that's several petals. And while it is normal for teenagers to date and kiss and so forth, she wanted me to keep in mind that the petals don't grow back, and that one day, i would get married. "You want to give your husband the whole flower," she said, totally unconscious of the "deflowering" metaphor hovering at her fingertips. "It's only natural that you'll lose a few of your petals along the way, but you want to keep as many as possible."

I internalized this message far more than i had realized, and found myself depressed after Theo. I began to wonder what, if anything, i had left to offer. I had given away the flower, and i wasn't even dating the guy who had it. I would never get it back.

Then i realized that my mom was wrong. Yes, i had given some things away. But as God had reassured me, i still had plenty of sex to offer, for the rest of my life. I also had humor, warmth, intelligence, and talents. I was still a valuable person with a lot to offer, sexuality aside. And i still had plenty of sexuality. I may have bloomed a little early, but i am not worthless. I have a lot to offer to John, and if it turns out that John is not T.O.M., i'll still have plenty to offer T.O.M., whoever he turns out to be.

I am not worthless. I am a valuable, desirable, lovable person, and John knows that and appreciates it. And sex with him only reaffirms my sense of self-worth.

Back to Basics

Due to a string of poor relationship decisions, my romance barometer is shot all to hell. I no longer have good standards for appropriate male behavior. If a guy can muster up the energy and interest to text me to cancel a date to 7-11 instead of just standing me up, i am blown away by his consideration and effort. (Okay, that's an exaggeration. But not by much.)

Consequently, when "John" entered my life, i was not at all certain how to handle him. He actually goes out of his way to see me. And by "out of his way", i mean, "He was two minutes away from my house, he knew i was home, and he didn't have anywhere to be immediately, so he stopped by to say hello." Now, to give him full credit, i didn't know he was in the area, so it was a surprise. But the more i reflected on it later, the more i realized that that's just the foundational, basic standard of behavior. That's what you do. When your lady friend is two minutes away from where you are doing nothing at all, you stop by.

He does other things too, like buying me tissues and soup when i am sick, making my bed after he leaves in the morning (i leave earlier than he does), and checking in with me periodically throughout the day. Again, nothing special. I'm trying very hard not to rate him higher than he deserves for performing basic social interactions correctly.

But though i may be vastly overrating how awesome he is, i can't help but feel that he performs these functions in special, above-par ways. For example, not only did he make my bed, he left notes in it. This note, left on top of the pillows, refers to an inside joke. Trust me, it's cute.

The next note, i found under the covers on his side of the bed when i went to bed.

See? It's things like this that make me think he's extra special. Sure, he's mostly just doing the foundational stuff, but he does it because he knows that it's the basic, foundational stuff, and he doesn't expect any extra recognition for it. He does the basic stuff in special ways, he does the special stuff in extraordinary ways, and he does it all in a very matter-of-fact way. Because that's what you do.

Plus he's super hot.

The Other Man

When i write romantic poetry, it is often inspired by whatever guy i have been foolish enough to let into my life recently. (I promise this is not a bitter, bitchy, Vagina Monologues-style rant. In fact, i can almost guarantee that you will say "Awwww!" at least once by the end. Just keep reading.) However, my poems are never directly about that guy.

For example, in this poem, i am talking about my ex (we'll call him Casey). Most of our relationship was long distance, so we texted a lot. So that was true. And i was living through a hot, humid summer. So that part was true. But all of that beautiful, romantic crap about the text messages tethering me to reality, and feeling at home in him? Yeah. Not true about Casey.

It's never really been true about anyone. I have a highly idealized "muse" who is featured prominently in a lot of my poetry. Some of my male romantic leads are a combination of the guy i'm actually with and this "Other Man". Some of them are just him (we'll call him T.O.M. for short). In fact, i even wrote a poem where i make a sort of oblique reference to T.O.M., saying that i wrote to him because i hadn't met him yet.

Sometimes, i thought that T.O.M. was "the one", some bizzare poetic presentiment of the person i was supposed to be waiting for. Sometimes, i thought i was setting my standards too high, mooning over someone who did not and never would exist. Sometimes, i just thought i was a good writer, and had created a fully-realized male romantic lead that any girl would fall for.

I would start to write a poem about a real moment that i had actually experienced with a flesh-and-blood man who was present in my life (humid day, feeling like i'm dissolving into the atmosphere, Casey texts me, and we're off!). But then, i would begin to add or change things, thinking that the moment would have been so much better if Casey had said this, or if i had felt that, or if these particular thoughts had been in my head at the moment. I embroider reality liberally. I am a poet, after all.

I'm not saying that he's T.O.M., but my latest crush (we'll call him John) has begun to inspire poetry. And so far, i have not felt the need to embroider a single second of it. Every moment spent with John is complete as is. And while i know that there are things still unsaid and moments yet to experience, i don't feel the need to overlay reality with what could and will be.

I'm not saying that John is T.O.M. It's too early to say anything like that. I am saying that he inspires me, and that poems about and moments with him feel complete. And that's got to mean something.

Crush

It's all so new, and i find myself blushing as i speak his name. Blushing, as if i'm back in eighth grade. That was surely the last time i blushed over a boy.

A part of me wants to tell no one, to cherish this very new (yet very old) sensation for as long as i can. It's mine, mine and his, and i want to savor it.

Another part of me wants to tell everyone, to have the awkward pleasure of blushing and laughing and being teased as i whisper the things he said about me, about my beauty and warmth, about how he blushes around me.

I feel all twirly inside.