Don't Worry, Be Happy

Me: I feel like we argue a lot.  We don't have much to say that doesn't end in argument.
Him: I don't know.  We disagree, but it doesn't bother me that much.  I mean, we talk for an hour at a time on the phone; we don't usually disagree then.
Me: Yeah, but that's mostly complaining about work.
Him: I do complain about work a lot.  I'm sorry.
Me: That's not what I'm saying.
Him: No, but I really should avoid over-sharing about work.  And I'll stay away from topics that I know rile you up.
[pause]
Me: I wish I had more relationship experience.  Maybe then I'd know what we're supposed to talk about.  We can't talk about politics--or religion...or science--because we'll argue about it.  We can't talk about music or movies or books because we don't listen to or watch or read the same things.  I mean, what do we have in common, really?  And after more than four months of dating, we still only see each other once a week.  Our schedule is against us, too.
Him: You know, this is exactly what people say when they're breaking up.
Me: I'm trying to have a conversation, not break up.
Him: Well, you're really good at these almost-break ups.
Me: Well, maybe this is an almost break up.  We've got to change something.
[pause, he throws a fake grin my way, kisses me]
Me: We haven't resolved anything, you know.
Him: Sure, we have.  We learned that you think this is worth working on.


It was a strange discussion.  A positive one: I was heard, and he was talking.  But one that clearly demarcates a shift in the relationship.  Whether that shift is positive or negative, I'm still not sure.  I'm not sure if by clearing the air, we're closer to or farther from breaking up.  I feel better today than I did yesterday, but how long will that feeling last?

Him: You have summer off.  It's almost summer.  We'll be able to hang out more then.
Me: Summer is still two months away, and it only lasts two months.  We can't rely on summer to fix all of our problems.
Him: But maybe by spending more time together, we'll get to know each other and see what we like in each other.  Plus, summer lasts three months, right?
Me: Not for teachers.

My therapist says that the first months of a relationship are the honeymoon period, that we should be completely infatuated with each other at this point.  I know she's not just throwing mumbo-jumbo my way.  I've been there.  Two weeks into dating my college boyfriend, I said "I love you" and he said it back.  He gave me his sweatshirt, and I wore it every day.  We saw each other multiple times a week.  We kissed in the branches of trees we had climbed and wrote love letters/emails to each other.  We jumped at every chance to be together.

"Jack" and I are not in love.  We are not infatuated with each other (or at least I'm not).  Our age and lack of extensive free time may preclude some of the niceties I described (oh, college, how I miss you), but the fact of the matter is, this is not a honeymoon.  I don't know if that's because it's hard to be infatuated with someone you see only once a week, or if it's because we're simply not meant to be.  Probably a combination of both.


I went into last night completely planning on breaking up with him.  I had spent an entire weekend in Atlanta (gleefully bonding with my two beautiful nieces) and not thinking about him at all.  And when I did think about him, it was almost as if we'd already broken up.  I felt like I was single already.  There was a sense of relief in the freedom, and a reluctance to do the actual breaking.  Because "Jack" has been left behind and left out so much in his life that it breaks my heart to break his.

In the two times that we've had serious, potentially conclusive conversations, he has stiffened and shut up.  The sit-down we had after his birthday--which he assumed was a break up--was really just me talking and him sitting across from me, defensive in posture.  Hearing my words, but really just waiting for me to say goodbye.

"Why do you clam up when the talk turns serious?" I asked him yesterday, as we lay side-by-side on his bed, stockinged feet on the floor, eyes looking up at the ceiling.

"Because I've been hurt before," he replied.  "And I figure, you'll either talk yourself into staying or talk yourself into leaving."

"Everybody's been hurt before."

"I know it's probably unhealthy, and fairly narcissistic, but it's how I cope.  ...Do you want to go in the other room and talk?"

"No," I responded before he could get up, pulling him close.  "Because you'll sit on the opposite side of the room, cross your arms, and stop talking."

"True," he said, and then paused before continuing.  "Why do we need to have an adult conversation, anyway?"

"Because we're adults," I said.  "This is what adults do."


And that's probably where our downfall lies, in what we see in ourselves and in our age.  To him, being 29 means having plenty of time to figure things out and catch up.  In his world, 29 is young and stupid, and he's a mess, but it's okay.  He's happy.  To me, 29 means almost 30.  It means adulthood.  It means seven-year careers and taxes and house renovations and serious relationship conversations and self-knowledge.  It still means young--and fun--but for me, happiness takes a different, more organized path.  I strive; he wanders.

Him: What do you see in me, anyway?  You're perfect and responsible and an adult.  Why do you even like me?
Me: I could ask you the same question.  I mean, I'm all those things--okay, not perfect, but responsible and more adult than I probably should be.  I'm like a 75 year old trapped in an almost-30 body.  Why bother?
Him: I do sometimes wish that you could stay up later.  That you were more free.  But then I see you, and I remember how much I like you and how much I missed you.  And I guess I'm hoping to corrupt you a little bit, too.
Me: What?  No. [jokingly pulling away]
Him: You're probably hoping I'll be a little better, too.
Me: I don't care.  I just want you to be happy.  I want you to be happy, and I want me to be happy.
Him: So be happy, Rebekah.


That's what I'm trying to do.