I have no car to pick him up, but that's ok, I'll figure something out. I'm just super excited to see him. We haven't seen each other in 37 days. Neither of us is very rich, and I was in school until mid-June, so that didn't give me a lot of spare time.
Let me tell you something -- long distance relationships suck big lizard eggs. When it is quite literally painful to be apart from him for so long, I tend to lapse into old behaviours to build up a wall and protect myself. And then I turn into a shitty girlfriend. He's like a drug; I need a dose every so often or I go into withdrawal...which is not pretty.
Hug me till you drug me,
put me in a coma.
Hug me till you drug me,
love's as good as soma.
Dystopian novel references aside. There's truth to what Huxley says there. Love -- attraction, lust, the physical act(s) of intimacy -- is a physiological reaction. (This doesn't invalidate it, by the way. Just to clear up that common misconception, that anything biological is somehow lesser because we can't help it.) I don't know the science-y details behind it and I don't really give enough of a fuck to look it up, but I do know that pheromones -- scent -- play a big part in the process.
So I steal my boyfriend's clothing, because it has his scent, and I curl up with it to feel better once he's gone. (He does the same with my stuff, though he's only admitted to it once.) This isn't some silly thing that people write about in romantic comedies; it has basis in reality. And I'm pretty sure a lot of us do it, even if we don't want to admit it because we don't want the stain of being a romantic to sully our image.
It used to be a secret that I'm a big, hopeless romantic. (Well. Sort of a secret. It was a secret to those who thought they knew me but didn't really care enough to really get to know me. My true friends have known this for a while.)
I was pretty ashamed of being a romantic. Mainly because every romantic thing had blown up in my face, and I was beginning to believe that I'd be alone for forever. Which was ok, I guess, as I'd never really planned to get married at all, and had sort of imagined my parental life as a single mother (via sperm bank or friendly donation). I just wanted one relationship to be nice. Just one relationship with a guy* who wasn't a total douchebag, who didn't send me on a tailspin into depression and suicidal thoughts again.
Being with Fezzik for almost 9 months now, I'm no longer ashamed of being a romantic. Though I admit that we are both sort of waiting for the other shoe to drop because this is the first time something this good has happened for either of us, I'm happy in love and happy to stay here. We fight, of course, but it's few and far between (happening more frequently the longer we've been apart, of course).
Neither of us is perfect, but I know he's perfect for me. And...I think I'm perfect for him. Probably. He'd never admit it, but whatever. He'd never admit a lot of times and it doesn't matter because he doesn't need to. Actions speak far louder than words.
And I know, absotively, that I wish to marry him. I don't wish to get married; I wish to marry Fezzik (golly it sounds weird to say that with his pseudonym). World of difference between those two things.
I think that Dante Shepherd is correct in his definition of love: "Love is best defined by one simple number: the number of times that you're willing to simply just roll your eyes at your significant other's shenanigans."
That's definitely been the guiding principle behind our relationship (you know, aside from trust and honesty and clear communication and all that crap). It works.
(Also, yes, I realize that I do a lot of rambling about how in love I am with my boyfriend. It's important for me to blog about the good things in my life, and he happens to be one of them.)
*For argument's sake I'm straight; I don't identify as straight, but I've also never really been with a woman. I don't really know what I am anymore. Maybe heteroflexible. Like, really flexible.
