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.

Murphy's Law: Whatever will create more stress, that's the shit that happens.

I should be packing right now.  I spent 5-6 hours yesterday packing, and a few hours in the days before that, but I'm still nowhere near finished.  I've cleared out the bathroom (minus a few candles, some cleaning supplies, my basic toiletries).  I've cleared out one of my closets, my office, and some bits and pieces from the living/dining room.  I've gone through my clothes to get rid of whatever I haven't worn in a while and what doesn't fit anymore, and I've taken done all the art and pictures from the walls.  But I haven't touched the kitchen or the storage area above my closet, and some things are only half done, like my piano bench: the music is put away, the random stuff in the drawers is not.

I've chosen to write tonight instead of pack, though, because I feel the need to document the insanity that is this Week Before The Move, so that one day when I look back on this, I won't incorrectly remember it as a joyful or easy time.  Because it has been neither of those things.  My sister once wrote in a college essay (before I forced her to edit it out) that her life is like a roller coaster.  Well, if life is a roller coaster, then this is my week:

I don't even like normal roller coasters.

I spent pretty much all of Sunday and Monday either laying floors or packing.  And then by the end of Sunday, we finished laying the floor, but we hadn't touched the quarter round.  So I asked my contractor to do it the next day.  Then I get an email saying that the gaps along the wall (between the flooring and the baseboards) are too large for the quarter round in some places.  So then I freak out because he doesn't offer any solutions.  And then my insurance agent wants to know what kind of insurance I want (we haven't already chosen??).  And then my mortgage person wants to close (for the second and final time) on Friday.  And then my contractor comes up with a solution for the flooring.  And then my insurance person helps me choose and pay for a flood policy.  And then Capital One's online banking system won't let me in, and I don't know if the check written to me for my washer and dryer has posted yet.  And then I spend an hour on the phone with Capital One.  And then my cleaning people go to clean today and the workers won't let them in to clean because they're not done yet.  And then the cleaning people aren't sure they have a time before the weekend.  And then Capital One confirms the check deposit.  And then I have no idea who is going to move my stuff on Saturday.  And then I think I have a lead for movers.  And then it falls through.  And then my cleaners figure out a plan, so that they can come tomorrow afternoon.  And then I find a mover.  And then I find out that no locksmiths work on the weekends.  And then my insurance agent tells me that I only owe 600-something bucks toward flood insurance right now, not the $1300 I thought it was.  And then I find extra time to clear out the closets in my new house so that people can clean the space and work on the quarter round more efficiently.  And then I still need to figure out what in the hell to do with that huge piece of pretty-thin plywood sitting in my bedroom.  And then my real estate agent surprises me and drops off a mardi gras candle.  And then my mom agrees to help me get to UHaul to rent a truck early Saturday morning.  And a friend promises to leave out the dryer she's giving me, so I can pick it up even though they're going out of town.

As I write this, it seems like I should be all set.  But I can't shake the deep, troubled feeling that everything is going to bottom out.  Because I felt all set on Monday and then this paragraph happened.

And I'm sad to leave my house, the place I've called home for the last four years.

And I'm excited to arrange and decorate.

And I'm nervous that I won't get to sleep that first night.

And I'm relieved to have a place to call my own.

And I'm afraid that I'll be lonely, living by myself for the first time.

I hope that as the weeks pass, and I settled into the new place, that some of these fears and anxieties and time-consuming phone calls will subside.  And I'll finally get to use my midday planning period for planning again.

A few more pictures...

Bedroom Dec 27th

Bedroom January 10th

Bedroom January 15th

Bedroom January 18th

Bedroom January 20th
(still looks like this, but with a big piece of plywood propped against the wall)

Some of the packed boxes in my "office"

My mountainous Goodwill pile-in-progress

Ain't Nobody Got Time For That

It feels like I don't have time for anything not related to my house these days.  I guess it's good that work has been slightly calmer this week and that "Jack" works most hours that I'm not sleeping or working myself.  Luckily, when I do see him, he's very patient; my house is all I talk about, but he has yet to complain.  It's all I really talk about anywhere, if I'm being honest.  I seem to be becoming relentlessly single-minded in my conversations.  Recently, I've started to worry that I'm boring my friends, coworkers, and family when I go on and on about the house, but they all seem pretty interested in hearing about the progress and they ask about it, so they're either really great actors or they're actually interested.  And based on the number of actors who are terrible and get paid for it, as well as the fact that I can't help from constantly bringing up it anyway, I'm going to say that my friends are genuinely interested in the proceedings of my home renovations and let that be that.

As the time between the present moment and the first night I sleep in my new house quickly winds down, I find my stress level inversely ramping up.  My mom said over winter break that I was the calmest new homeowner she'd ever seen.  And in defense of her statement, I felt pretty calm about it at the time.  But she hasn't see me in a week or two, not since my contractor gave me my keys back and the leftover work was mine to do and finish before move-in.  It's like getting dropped off at school for the first time.  No, please, contractor, don't leave me! What will I do without you?

And then I realized that I couldn't find the right dryer vent to match the hole he put in the wall for it, and then I realized that I really needed my door fixed, and now my contractor is picking up the keys from me again tomorrow night.  I feel better already.

The amount of time I have spent at my new house has been ramping up as well.  This past Saturday, I spent about eight hours painting my house with my dad and some amazing friends.  I went into avoidance mode (my favorite stress-coping mechanism) and stayed away on Sunday and Monday (though I did get talk about it way too much and get supplies at Home Depot).  But Tuesday night I was back over there, and we finished the painting (yay!).  Today I stopped by to check out the dried paint, and tomorrow night we're ripping up the old carpet.  Sunday we install laminate in two rooms.  Tuesday, the house gets cleaned.  At some point, my door gets fixed.  And after that point, it's moving in and decorating, dealing with washer/dryer stuff, getting the subfloor and attic insulated, and then slowly tackling the little things that kind of drive me crazy.  Like the backyard.  And installing lattice between the foundation piers.  And outside lighting.  And so many other things.

I apologize for the long time gaps between posts and the brevity of this post, but I hope that upon move-in, things will slow down, and I'll have a few moments to reflect.  In the meantime, here are some "Before" and "During" collages to keep your renovation-update appetite sated.

The Seven Year Cinch

Seven Year Cinch

By cinch, I don't mean easy.  Teaching is never easy.  I mean it like the cinch of a belt: tightening for a better fit.

Yesterday marked 6.5 years that I've been teaching.  It's pretty amazing, considering the fact that I would wake up every morning during my first year and spend my time in the shower slowly opening my eyes and considering other career options.  But first year of teaching is hard.  For pretty much everybody.  I would be lying if I said that I had any non-work-related friends during that first year.  And despite the fact that I have incredible colleagues whom I love dearly as coworkers and as friends, we were terrible about avoiding shop talk back then; sometimes even happy hours ended up being stressful.  So I found solace in books and their fictional characters, and I took frequent walks through the park, trying to alleviate the need for adult contact with smiles from passing strangers and overheard conversations.

If that sounds pathetic, that's because it was.  But I made it through, like I'd done in other less-than-wonderful moments in life.  Like I did in high school.  I would take my 60-70 hour rookie work week over my sixteen-year-old self any day.  Between classes and homework, I probably spent just as much time working.  And on top of being awkward, lanky, shy, and severely plain, I didn't get paid for ANY of it.  (In fact, I think high school might have traumatized me.  While student teaching in Virginia, I once had to go to a seminar at a high school, and I literally could feel my blood pressure rising as I stepped inside.)  Then again, I had friends in high school.  So maybe first year was worse.

Six years later, teaching looks and feels very different.  I bring no work home.  I write my lesson plans a week ahead of time.  I manage children with greater ease.  (I admit to my classes that they're driving me nuts, and they only seem to like me better for it?)  Most importantly, I realized this year that for the first time since I started teaching, I can wing it.  Like Project Runway, I take the time and resources that I have, and I make it work.  And it works well.

Let me give you an example.  Yesterday evening, I looked at my lesson plan skeleton for today, dug out a couple of pieces of paper to copy, and left it at that until the morning.  Okay, if I'm honest, I looked at the skeleton, thought "Shit, I wish it was still vacation," copied some papers, and then threw some newspapers in my bag when I got home.  But that's my point!  I got there this morning with newspaper weather maps, came up with a basic framework for my lesson within five minutes, jotted it down in my plan book, and then taught it without a hitch.  Truthfully, it surprised me how well it went.  I've pulled this half-assed planning thing a few times since August, and every time, I go into it resigned to a mediocre lesson for the day.  And then the kids love it.  Sometimes they love it better than my carefully planned lessons (jerks).

I would worry about all of this procrastination and laziness--am I getting bored or losing satisfaction with my job?--but then I actually teach one of my potentially mediocre lessons and I find myself in a state of joy as I do so.  Maybe that sounds crazy.  Joy is for births and weddings and Christmas songs.  But really, when I'm in it with the kids and things are going smoothly, or I find an article about stars that I know they'll love, I find myself enveloped in that moment, aware of how wonderful it is to be there.  And for me, that's what joy feels like.

While some days I wish I had a job that let me surf the internet for hours on end, I am incredibly thankful for the fact that teaching requires full mental commitment.  I remember a few years ago when this guy I liked (I mean, really liked--I'd had a crush on him for over a year) finally went out with me, and then broke up with me two weeks later.  I was devastated.  That night, I cried myself to sleep.  I walked into work the next day like a zombie.  But by the time the kids walked into my classroom, he wasn't important anymore.  He couldn't be.  There were twenty some-odd faces sitting in my chairs, waiting to feed their intellect, and I had to give them myself completely for the next four hours until lunch rolled around.  And when lunch got there, I was fine.  You can't be preoccupied when you're teaching.  You simply don't have the time.

I do find myself thinking about "Jack" at occasional moments during the work day.  At lunch.  Walking in the hallway between classes.  Worrying about running into his mom.  But with kids, he disappears from my consciousness.  Because there are weather maps to be read and class clowns to be shut down.  "Jack" can't compete with that.  Nothing can.

I told my parents about him, by the way.  Well, I told my mom, and I let her tell my dad so I didn't have to endure the embarrassment of going through it with both of them.  I've suffered that embarrassment plenty enough times in my life to know better.  Like the first time I got my period.  At the dinner table that night, my mom and I were having an unrelated argument about the connotations of the terms "girl" and "woman."  At one point, I said that I wouldn't feel like a woman until I got married or had kids (I was wrong), and my mom responded, "But you're a woman now."  My dad perked up: "Since when?"  Mom: "Since today."  And then I died for the thousandth time since puberty had begun.  Have I told you about the time I had to write my mom a letter to get a real bra?  Or to teach me how to shave my legs?  They are wonderful parents and exceptional human beings, and they are severely lacking in tact when it comes to responding to awkward moments in my life.

I broke the news to my mom one day last week while I was over at their house looking at paint cans and eating their food.  We were in the kitchen talking about my house.  There was a break in the conversation at one point, and I went to tell her about him ("I--"), and she cut me off with her own new line of thought.  Lose the battle, win the war.  So I waited and mustered up the courage later.  Despite plenty of consideration, I'd found no smooth way to transition to talking about him, so I just blurted it out.

Me: So, I'm seeing someone.
Mom: [pause] Like a male?
Me: Yes, mom, like a male.

As people had been trying to convince me for weeks, telling her wasn't that bad.  She was genuinely excited for me.  Genuinely unconcerned about the fact that he's a bartender.  Genuinely interested in meeting him.

Of course, she was probably also letting her own interests cloud her judgment.  You know those cartoons where someone sees an opportunity to strike it rich, and they get those big money signs in their eyes?  Well, imagine my mom's face like that, but with cute little babies in her eyes instead of money signs.  Parents and their obsession with grandchildren.  Sheesh.

I did lie about where I met him.  I'm not overly concerned about the fact that people know that we met on Tinder, but I feel weird about telling my parents that.  Actually, what I feel weird about is explaining to my mom and dad what Tinder is and worrying about them sharing it with their golf buddies, who I imagine are more "in the know" and will tell them about Tinder's reputation.  Obviously, I didn't use it to hook up.  But they don't know that.  They once found a thong in the laundry when I got back from studying abroad in France, and despite the fact that I hadn't even been kissed by that point, they freaked out on me.  I got lectured.  That was ten years ago, and there has been at least one shotgun wedding in the family since then, but still.  I'd rather not talk about sex with them, if I can help it.  So we met at kickball.

I do want them to meet him.  I don't know what my mom would cook if he came to dinner--she doesn't tend to make vegan food--and I don't know how that would work with his work schedule, but I do want it to happen.  I want him to become more a part of my world: more familiar with my friends and family, more familiar with me.  Via text today, I proposed that he see my new house when we see each other on Friday.  He hasn't been there yet--though he's heard more about it than he probably ever wanted to--and I feel like it would be a shame for him to only see the finished product.  There's already a lot of work that's been done (foundation and plumbing and electricity and AC and roofing), but most of that's pretty invisible.  The painting and new floors will make the visual difference, and I want him to see it before those happen.  Because this house means a lot to me.  And what's a relationship if not sharing the things that mean the most to you?

Alternatively, thank God for the Seven Year Cinch.  I don't know how I'd have time for a house and a a male someone if I were still a new teacher.

Progress, guys.  It's a-happenin'.

You've got a better bet with the daughter that's getting married, mom.

Mine

Yesterday made something like the seventh week that "Jack" and I have been dating.  I still have plenty of moments of hesitation, times when we disagree or one of us is in a mood.  But for the better part of my moments, I am enamored.  I go to sleep wishing he was there.  I wake up excited that I'm a day closer to seeing him again.  And it's become comfortable between us.  We tell each other stories.  We share in each other's quirks.  I apologize when I realize I'm giving too much navigation advice in the car.  He offers me bottled water so that the fluoride in the tap won't collect in my pineal gland and damage my brain (but shhhh, I still drink from the faucet when he's not around).  I get a little worried sometimes that we're becoming too comfortable, doing the same things every time we see each other (dinner and bottled water and a movie), but I know that it's just as much my responsibility as it is his to keep things interesting.

I think I've mentioned it before, but my roommate put me on to this great science-based blog called Barking Up the Wrong Tree.  In said blog, there's an article about a set of questions created and studied by a scientist that have been proven to create a quick bond between two strangers.  The article presents the questions as an opportunity to bond more deeply with a romantic partner.  In the spirit of mixing things up, I'd love to have a night where we skip the movie and answer these questions instead.  I don't know how to bring it up, though.  I mean, I know it's as simple as saying, "Hey, I have these questions. What do you think about answering them?"  But I worry that he'll look past the simple statement and see the vulnerable intention behind it: "I want to know you, and I want you to want to know me, too."  Despite our increased level of comfort with one another, I find myself worrying about coming on too strong.  About investing too much too fast.  About liking him more than he likes me.

I know it's stupid.  I know he's a lucky guy.  But I am the queen of anticipating the improbable.  Despite the fact that I spend more than a week every year teaching my students about inferences (logical, evidence-based conclusions), in personal situations, I still give a heavy nod to the imaginary and the irrational.  For example, "Jack" is not always as verbally expressive about his feelings as I'd like.  The most likely explanation for this is that he is an American male and therefore is not socialized to be open with his feelings.  Perhaps he's even had relationships or experiences in his life which have caused him to be hesitant to share said feelings.  But after a while, I start to wonder if maybe it's something else that's holding his tongue.

This is usually when my therapist talks me off the ledge.  "Do NOT break up with him," she repeats.


Meanwhile, I am falling in love.  Not with "Jack"--there's plenty of time for that--but with my house.  Up until now, she has been a combination of a non-entity, a distant investment, and a pain in my butt, but she's growing on me quickly.  Over the last week, I have spent something like ten hours under her floorboards, cleaning out trash from the crawlspace, and another ten hours picking out colors and painting walls.  I've spent hours scanning items to reduce the amount of paper clutter being carried over to her closets, and I've spent just as many hours imagining where furniture will go, and how things will fit.  And I'm in love.  I may need to buy hundreds of dollars worth of caulk to close every gap in the house, and I may need to wear noise-canceling headphones at all times so as not to be a part of my neighbors' conversations, but she has taken a hold of my heart.

And it's not easy to leave the house I'm currently in.  For the last four years, it has been the place I have called home.  It has felt like home in a way that no other house has in my adult life.  Letting go of places and people has never been my strong suit, and I've found myself already missing its screened porch and glass doors and columns.  It's strange noises and fifty-year-old appliances.  But like old boyfriends and old not-quite-boyfriends, I know these things will pull more and more gently on my heart as time passes.  Until eventually, they'll settle into place as fond memories of somewhere I once lived, of a place I once called home.

Because this new house, she's mine.  Today, while painting, I accidentally scratched one of the walls with a ladder, and my first thought was, "Well, there goes part of my security deposit."  But the deposit has been replaced with a down payment, and the house is mine to decorate and damage as I see fit.  When I first made the offer, it was just a nice-ish place I could live in for a while.  A financial move and an opportunity to try and live on my own.  But she's begun to take on life and personality.  She's begun to look like me.  To feel like me.  To be a place I want to go, not a place I'm forced to live.  And like me, she is a work in progress.  I cannot completely change her; I can only make her the best version of herself.


Trees are sanctuaries....In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfill themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves....Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.  --Herman Hesse

"Do NOT Break Up With Him."

Therapist: Don't break up with him.
Me: I don't want to break up with him.
Therapist: Good. Don't.

You dump a few too many potential prospects, and all of a sudden, your therapist is constantly on your back, reminding you not to break up with whichever guy you're seeing.

I guess a reputation is a reputation.

***

Despite my affirmation that breaking up was, in fact, not on my (very long and obsessively-composed) to-do list for the week, my therapist seemed unsure.

Me: He invited me to have dinner with his mom and grandparents, but I didn't go.
Therapist: Why not?
Me: I don't know; I kind of freaked out.  Dinner with the family?  That's a big deal, right?
Therapist: Sure.  It's a good thing, though.
Me: Meanwhile, I still haven't told my parents.  I've almost brought it up multiple times.  But it never seems like the right time.
Therapist: Everything you tell me indicates that he really likes you.  I mean, he wants you to meet his grandparents.
Me: He does like me.  I know.  And I like him, too.
Therapist: You keep hesitating, though.

Before I left, she made me promise one more time not to dump "Jack."

The thing is, I really actually truthfully with full sincerity have no desire to cut things short.  I like him.  A lot.  In fact, after a week of not seeing him and only talking sparingly, I found myself last night elated to sit in his living room--belly full of overly-spicy vegan Thai food--and disagree with him about religion and philosophy.  And I hate disagreeing about religion and philosophy.  With anyone.

I'm scared, though.  Of all of it.  Getting my heart broken.  Not falling in love.  Falling in love first.  Important conversations like "I love you" ("Me too") and "Let's move in together" ("Let's not").  Committing to him when there might be somebody else out there better suited for me.  Committing to him when there might be somebody else out there better suited for him.

I suppose in the end, I just have to do it.  I didn't learn how to be comfortable traveling solo by reading destination magazines in waiting rooms or looking at pictures on the internet.  And I won't learn how to be in a healthy, romantic, loving relationship by keeping my guard up.  Or hiding him from my parents.

Finn, my favorite character in The 100 (my most recent Netflix binge), said something to the same effect in the very first episode of the show.  He and a few others had found a vine that would allow them to swing across a river and arrive at Mount Weather, a place they'd been hiking toward for two days.  The first to swing was named Jasper, and he hesitated, visibly nervous.  But Finn reassured him: "Hey, it's okay to be afraid, Jasper.  The trick is not fighting it."  Of course, two seconds later, Jasper had a spear through his chest, but regardless, Finn had a point.

When I was a kid, my family used to take long road trips out West, visiting national parks and forests and random Native American museums in the middle of nowhere.  The last of our trips out West happened when I was in college.  My dad had a conference in Colorado Springs, and my parents thought it would be nice to gather their youngest four children into a minivan and make a wandering, two-week trek from Denver to North Dakota.  One afternoon during our stint in Colorado, after my dad had finished his conference sessions for the day but before it got dark, he took my younger siblings and I out to a place called Seven Falls.  The most impressive water falls can be seen as soon as you arrive, but viewing the rest of it requires a 224-step climb up minimalist metal stairs attached to the face of a cliff.  There were no elevators, contrary to what I had been told.  And so, I was faced with a dilemma: stay on the ground and miss out, or muster up some courage and see what's at the top.  I prayed the Hail Mary as fast as I could over and over again as I climbed, one foot in front of the other, even tempo, consistent speed, hand gripping the rail.  I almost bit the head off a woman that stopped to take a picture, and I was sure each time that the stairs shook that the whole thing would separate from the cliff and bring me to a terrifying death, but ten minutes later, I was at the top.  Heart slowing.  In one piece.  I had taken my fear by the throat and by God, I'd climbed the damn thing.  And it felt good.  And after we'd hiked the upper trail, and the sun began to set, I climbed back down those stairs with the rest of my family, calmly, easily, contentedly.  "It was worth it, wasn't it?" my dad asked, as we reached the bottom.  "Yeah," I said.  "It was."

What it looked like in my head.

What it actually looks like.

How I felt on the way up.

How I felt at the top.