Be Mine

I'll admit, I've been remiss in writing about "Jack."  It's not that we've broken up, nor is it that I have nothing to share, it's just that I'm stumped as to how to go about writing about us.  Take, for example, this paragraph.  At the point that I am writing this sentence, I have written and rewritten this paragraph about four times.  I just can't seem to get the story started.

Let me backtrack and try to give you some context.  Maybe that'll help.

In December, we told our respective parents about each other.  My mom was simultaneously happy for me and unsure about whether or not I was talking about a guy.
Me: "I'm seeing someone."
Mom: "Like a male?"

His mom was another story.  Partially because I already knew her (added pressure!) and partially because I got very limited information about her reaction through "Jack."

Him: I told my mom.
Me:  What'd she say?
Him: She said she understands now why I didn't tell her about it before.

(WHAT DOES THAT MEAN???)

He told her around Christmas, and I passed on an opportunity to have dinner with him, his mom, and his grandparents right after that because I wasn't sure if she hated me or not.  I was dreading going back to school and having to face her there, but then she was out for the first week.  Initially, I felt relief, but the waiting became like a Sword of Damocles, hovering over my head, ready to drop and behead me with its Mother Bear blade at any moment.  It wasn't until mid-way through the second week back from break that I finally saw her at lunch.  I looked over at her.  And she was looking away.  I hovered in the area for a minute, still looking.  Still no eye contact.

She hates me, I thought.

I didn't share this with anyone, of course.  Because it's the most ridiculous thing I've ever thought, and I knew it even then.  But my reptilian brain had already kicked into overdrive and emotion had taken down reason with a one-two punch.

I retreated to my room, where I weighed the pros and cons of approaching her later in the day and setting things straight.  And by setting things straight, I mean pleading for her approval.  I decided on what I would say over the course of my planning period (finally settling on "Please don't hate me for dating your son!")  and continued mentally rehearsing intermittently until dismissal.  At which point I chickened out and left school early, hoping not to run into her.

The next day at lunch, I saw her again.  I looked over in her direction, hesitantly this time, and we made eye contact.  She smiled.  I pointed to her.

Me:  I should probably talk to you at some point.
Her: I should probably give you a hug at some point!
Me:  ...Do you want to give me a hug right now?
Her:  Yes.

I'm not even lying.  Those were our exact words.  And that hug lasted a long time.  When she finally let go, it was like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders.  The joyous realization sang in my head: She doesn't hate me!

She does occasionally get awkwardly excited to see me in the hallway, and she did stop me on Friday to ask me how things were going with "Jack."  And she did interrupt a conversation I was having with a guy in the bathroom line yesterday (I think she thought we were flirting; we weren't--well, I wasn't, anyway).  But knowing that she approves makes me feel a thousand times better.

"Jack" and I have made strides, too.  We've finally gotten to a point where--for better or for worse--we're a little more real with one another.  And more affectionate.  One of my sisters, my older brother, and my sister-in-law met him on Friday, and they had three reactions:

Brother: How OLD is he??  (He looks like a teenager)

Sister-in-law: You kiss every time you two see each other.  Sarah and I just noticed, that's all.

Brother: I don't like that he calls me "bro." A little presumptuous, don't you think?

I'm beginning to appreciate "Jack" more, too.  At first, I was really worried about the fact that we were different.  He's a vegan; I love a good leg of lamb.  He's not particularly observant, religiously-speaking; I'm a weekly church-goer.  He's got kind of weird interests and musical preferences; I like Taylor Swift and other vapid-slash-great pop music.  I worried, too, that he was insecure, and I wasn't sure how that would pan out between us.  I mean, I usually go for tall, muscular, confident men.  After three months of dating, though, I'm starting to realize that what I first thought was insecurity was actually consideration.  He's not lacking in confidence; he's just really sweet and thoughtful.

This is the first time I've ever dated someone like that.  And it's awesome.

This weekend, I saw him a lot because I was on the parade route close to his bar.  Every time I stopped by, for a drink or to use the bathroom, he would go out of his way to see me.  On Thursday night, he apologized for forgetting that this weekend was Valentine's Day.  "I'm not worried about it," I said.  "We'll do something fancy next week," he countered.  I was about to tell him that he didn't need to do that, but then I stopped myself.  Who am I to argue if he wants to treat me well?

We are officially boyfriend and girlfriend now, too.  It happened pretty naturally, mostly because everyone else started calling us that.  My friends refer to him as my boyfriend.  His friends introduce me to other people as his girlfriend.  And yesterday, when I went to use the bathroom at his bar, he tried to get me a pass when they stopped selling them: "I asked the owner for a wristband for my girlfriend, and he said to wait twenty minutes." (Jack's exact words)

And you know what, I like it.  I wasn't sure that the word would make any lick of difference in our relationship, but there's something to be said for putting a name to things.  It gives credibility amongst his/my friends, and with strangers, too.  Because that old saying "when it rains, it pours"?  Not a lie.  Just a couple of days ago, I was making conversation at "Jack"'s bar with the guy next to me.  He was friendly, and I like talking to strangers, so we were exchanging pleasantries while I waited for my drink.  As I went to leave, this guy's female friends stopped me. "He's a good looking guy, right?  You'd date him, right?"  I just smiled and shrugged. "If I weren't dating the bartender..."  To which the girls let out a loud "oh!!!!!" (like my students do when somebody gets dissed) and then laughed uproariously.  Poor guy.  But it made for a funny moment.

The truth is, I probably was talking flirtatiously with him without realizing it.  Prior to November, I'd been single (not including casual dating or short-term flings) for seven years.  More to point, I've been alive for 29 years, and I've been in a relationship for a total of less than two of them.  Eventually, you get used to being single, and you develop certain habits.  So even though I already have a boyfriend, I find myself looking around at guys anyway: "Hmm, he's cute.  I wonder if he's single."

I have no doubt, though, that at some point, I'll clue in and shed my old single ways.  Sunday, I found myself looking at a really attractive guy and thinking, no way he's as sweet as "Jack."  I mean, that's progress, right?

All Moved In

Well, sort of.  I mean, my stuff is physically all moved in.  And most of it is actually in the place I want it to be.  But there are ceiling vent replacements on the ground in Home Depot bags.  Decorations still in boxes.  Things large and small weighing me down as they refuse to budge from the to-do list I've concocted on my phone (so that I can access it anywhere...because I'm thinking about it everywhere).

I suppose my current benchmark for "all moved in" will be when I finally spend a full work week doing things that are not home improvement tasks (or paying anyone to do things that might be considered a home improvement task).  Obviously, I will never get to the point where no-caulking-on-a-school-night becomes an unmovable standard, but I think when I hit that first task-less week, it'll really begin to feel like home.

If you're wondering, no, it doesn't yet.  Home is still that old house on Wilson.  I almost drove there after work today.  I wake up in my new bedroom expecting the smells and noises and even the heat distribution of that old house, and truth be told, the new place feels a little empty, a little lonely.  Maybe it's the lack of art on the walls.  Maybe it's the roommate withdrawal.  Maybe it's the fluorescent light in the kitchen that hums like a hospital hallway.  Whatever it is, it makes me a little sad when I wake up.

But I'll get over it.  Because there are plenty of perks about the new place.

(1) There's always street parking.
          One day when they finally turn the old school across the street into condos, that might change, but for now, it's awesome to be able to park in front of my own house without battling nearby renters for the space.

(2) The layout is more morning-efficient.
         I noticed this after a few mornings in the house.  I seemed to consistently be leaving for work on time, despite waking up later or doing a few things before heading out than I usually do.  I thought about it one morning as the very phenomenon was happening, and realized that while shotguns lack in a lot of areas of efficiency (building materials, insulation, privacy), they're quite good for routines.  At the old house, it was back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, but here, I just move down the line from back bedroom to bathroom to kitchen/table to the front door.  Even my newspaper habits are more efficient: I open the door and (bam!) the newspaper is laying on my welcome mat.  I'm sure some people like a good front yard, but as for me, I'll take a newspaper on my front porch any day over something I have to mow!

(3)  There's lots of storage.
         I was terrified about this when I first started thinking about moving in, but it turns out that I've got more than enough space.  There are upper closets that are going completely unused at present, and I've pretty much only got curtains and art in boxes at this point.  I did have to downsize on clothing a little bit, and I don't get to hang all my jeans and sweaters like I used to, but something tells me I'll survive it.

(4) I live alone.
         I think I started transitioning into this a little early by changing with my doors open last month in the old house, but let me just say that it is amazing to be able to walk around my house completely naked without worrying that my roommate with walk through the door at that very moment.  I don't tend to do this.  In fact, I usually prefer being clothed to keep myself warm, but it's the principle of the thing.

(5) I can hear my neighbors through the wall.
         That sounds like a terrible thing, I know, but it's actually not that bad.  I first realized how much sound passes between the units one weekend night when I was painting before moving in.  And I was terrified of what that could mean.  What if I was trying to read and they were listening to Lady Gaga?  What if I was trying to sleep and they were vacuuming?  What if I were trying to vacuum and listen to Lady Gaga, and it turns out that they were trying to sleep?  In the end, though, it's kind of a blessing in disguise.  I can really only hear them in the front two rooms (where it doesn't matter so much), and when I hear something in the dead of night that concerns me, I can just tell myself it's the neighbors walking around their house.  This might get me killed or robbed at some point when I should've heard someone coming, but I'm hoping not.  At least the neighbors would hear me if I screamed.


There are more perks I could mention, but I'm losing steam as I write tonight.  I've spent all of my free time for the last month working on the house: most Saturdays, Sundays when I'm not already booked up to the chin, and work nights.  I even took off a day from work yesterday to relax...and ended up spending most of the day with a crew cleaning my air ducts as I created an expense spreadsheet for the house.  And then I went shopping for the house.  And then I talked about the house as "Jack" and I saw a movie and got dinner at this cool vegan place on Prytania, called "Seed." (I have no idea how they make cheese out of cashews, but it is surprisingly delicious.)

So, I'm going to end this post here (with a few pictures, of course), so that I can climb into bed early and read.  I installed smoke detectors tonight--my house deed for the day--so I feel alright about the fact that the million other parts of my to-do list have to wait a little longer to get done.  I've got time, after all.  I'm not planning on moving anytime soon.

Living Room and Kitchen

Bathroom (a little more cluttered than usual with the impending washer/dryer install--happening tomorrow)

My new washer and dryer, which are only slightly more expensive than what I used to have, but which feel wastefully extravagant for a single person who regularly re-wears dirty clothes to avoid doing laundry.

My piano room.  I'd show you a picture from the other angle, but then you'd get to see a huge pile of boxes instead of the piano, so I thought this was a better option.

My bedroom.  Nothing fancy, but it does the trick.