If you ask him, my boyfriend will tell you that I fart. (I do, it’s true. If you’re not a particularly flatulent person, this post is not for you.) In fact, you might not even have to ask him… That’s something he could very well just volunteer. Every now and again, I toot, and he thinks it’s hilarious.
I should amend that first line, now that I think about it… If you ask him, my boyfriend will tell you WITH PRIDE that his girlfriend farts. He’ll also tell you that I like comics (it’s true! I do that, too) and that I have excellent taste in film (zombies, slashers, torture porn, hurrah!). The fact that I love his tee-shirt collection, his parents, especially his fantastic younger sister and verbally sparring with his insanely cool group of friends may also slide its way into the conversation, as might my tendency to be a touch inappropriate in the name of humor and the fact that as far as girlfriends go, I can certainly throw down in the sack. I drink beer (love it), eat ribs and I never pick bad restaurants.
These are all things he might say, if you were to ask him about me.
If you ask me about him… I’m just going to smile and tell you I totally hit the jackpot. Because I finally found a guy who thinks it’s cute that I fart. And burp, every now and then. And who doesn’t mind that I love a good, juicy burger and an ice cold beer. I’m counting my blessings that he doesn’t think my thesis on slasher films was weird, and thanking my lucky stars that after our first little tiff, his I’m-sorry gift was zombie comics and Magic Hat.
Yes, it’s true. We have one of those sickening relationships that every former incarnation of myself would wretch at. Publicly. And that, for me, is something.
Not just because I’m a girlie girl who’s used to being one of the guys. Also because if you know me, you know the past year in my love life has been less of a stroll down memory lane and more of a tactical exercise in hostile territory. Evasive maneuvers are how I managed to stay single while I sterilized my wounds with ample amounts of tequila and healed up with the help of my soulmates, The Girls.
And now here I am, almost a full year after what I can only descrube even in retrospect as what felt like the Emotional Apocalypse , taking stock of my emotional progress and counting my blessings. My ex, who shall remain nameless, did not manage to inflict lasting emotuional scar tissue, even if he left me forever wiser about where I invest my emotional resources.
Taking a look at my new love portfolio, I have to say that lesson is one I’m happy to have learned, as James is everything a girl could wish for in a boyfriend and then some. For Christmas, he even gave me a crowbar.
And yes, we do the “I love you”s. And yes, we sometimes digress into makin’ out in public. And if I accidentally feel him up every now and then? Well… He’s cute. You totally would if you were dating him, too. (You’re not, so don’t, or it’ll end badly for you, I promise.) Things would be eerily perfect, if there was anything eerie about it at all. But there’s not. So it’s just great.
And we’re pushing past the panic zone I had where everything fell apart with The Ex, and looking at what it would mean to combine our awesome book collections onto one bookshelf when we move in together come June. There are “I love you”s, but no promises of Forever… And it doesn’t bother me yet, but I’m sure it will eventually. Considering what it means to have to fully extricate your life from someone else’s once its combined isn’t just heartbreaking, it’s overwhelming and ominous. Forever-talk thwarts that effect. But. We’re not there.
We fart in front of each other. That’s where we are. And that’s farther than The Ex and I really got, so there we go. I believe they call that progress. It does have me begging the question, though, is it better to have promises of forever from someone who thinks they mean it but doesn’t? Or have silence on the topic from someone who means that, too?
And I can’t claim it’s not an adjustment still, every now and again, this super-single girl suddenly being so committed to someone else. But it’s all good adjustments. Asking him for his thoughts before signing the contracts for Boston. Taking long weekends to Vermont. Having dinner at his parents’ place. Grabbing sushi for two instead of one before a night of movies in my apartment. He’s not a habit, like in the past… Not a mere integration into my routine. He’s like a sense of stability in who I am, a source of support and laughter. He’s like a best friend I get to snuggle with, except better, because he kisses my forehead all the time and doesn’t roll his eyes when I come home with (more) new shoes.
I don’t know. I guess I’ll figure the rest out as we move along. James isn’t really a planner, anyway. (Somewhere Kristin is pulling her hair out with anxiety, being all WHAT DO YOU MEAN NO PLAN??) And I am a planner, so I have to assume that’ll lead to… what do mature couples call it? Friction? We’ll see. For now… an apartment together somewhere in the boroughs is in the forecast. And if you know me, you know that means he means enough to me to take big risks and make big emotional investments. Lord help us all.
I do know that I love him. And if you ask him, he’ll tell you with pride that his girlfriend farts.
… He’ll quickly add that she doesn’t poop, though. Everyone knows girls don’t poop.