Well...I officially live with the BF (enter: Penis #1). I know that to most this probably isn't a big deal, but I haven't had a roommate since college. And I’ve never lived with a boyfriend. I mean, how so much urine ends up on the floor let alone the toilet seat lid is beyond me. Not the seat, the lid. Like…what? Is it that hard to aim?! Apparently. Thank God for our second bathroom. But then again, ever since I officially started working from home I basically alternate between PJs and workout clothes, so I'm pretty sure he got the short end of the stick. A little pee on the floor never hurt anyone as long as I can retire the rest of my wardrobe.
I think I’ve shared before that I have a history of running. When things get tough, I often bounce. So the decision to move in with my guy—not to mention move back to Orange County for him in the first place—was a maaaaaassive deal for me. Being roomies means cosigning a lease, and I’ve worked very hard to get and keep my good credit thankyouverymuch so I’m definitely not f*cking that up. We bought furniture together. We have bills together. And besides, I sold my car before I went to Washington so if I wanted to run at this point, I would literally have to…run. But trust me; I’ve been tempted (enter: Fanny Pack).
I threw my fanny pack at him a couple weeks ago. This isn’t just any fanny pack, mind you. This is my super-awesome-so-perfect-for-running-and-so-discrete-that-it’s-actually-even-kinda-badass fanny pack. And I LOVE this fanny pack. So the fact that I actually threw it at him means I was really mad. I don’t even remember what the fight was about; I just remember that we were at the Dana Point harbor and I was pissed. Fanny pack pissed.
So things haven’t been all sunshine and puppy dogs over here. In fact, as I write this I am hiding out in the bedroom pouting because he ate half my sweet potato fries at dinner tonight, and annoyed that he’s in the other room probably watching yet another crime drama that he’s so far into it would be virtually impossible for me to catch up. OK, OK—there’s a little more to the story than fries and TV, but let’s keep it simple for now or this is going to get really long. I share this because I usually write when I have some inspirational message to pass on, an ah-ha moment or sliver of wisdom I’ve gleaned from much thoughtful reflection, but I got nothin’. I am literally pouting about fries.
I almost didn’t want to write this because I don’t feel like I have much to offer right now. I think that’s why I haven’t written since I moved down from Washington. I’ve been struggling. Like a lot. But perhaps that’s even a message. Sometimes we struggle. Period. And when life gets messy we are faced with a choice. For me, it’s to either lean in…or run. And I don’t want to run anymore. I’m starting to think running is the Jamie version of being a total coward. So I’m choosing to lean in. To fall down. To get dirty. And although I am using my relationship as a playful scapegoat for my messy adjustment to the good ol’ OC, there is not a single person on this planet I’d rather get dirty with (wink, wink). But for reals…
I folded his underwear the other day. Yep, you heard me. HIS UNDERWEAR. What. The. F*CK. The worst part? As I was folding his boxers into perfect, tight little squares, I didn’t even freak out when I realized what was happening. I actually chuckled to myself like it was funny. Like it was funny. That was the first time in my life that I actually thought perhaps I had gone insane.
But I haven’t. I’m not insane. I’m just in love. And when we’re in love, we stay. Because that’s what lovers do. At least that’s what I’m starting to believe. It’s not easy, but it is courageous. So here I am…staying put for once (on deck: Penis #2).
Since we moved into our what-we-thought-was-perfect-and-a-total-steal Dana Point apartment, we have run into every single problem you could and could not even imagine. Pick your poison: The neighbor below us plays the tuba…like all day. Or maybe it’s the trombone. Whatever. Another neighbor snores so loudly I literally (not joking) have to wear ear plugs to bed. I am pretty sure the neighbor across the street who walks around his front yard in his underwear is a drug dealer. Another neighbor has a car so loud it sounds like a space ship is hovering over our apartment half the time. We are second-hand smoking marijuana at least a couple times a week. Dogs. SO MANY BARKING DOGS. Kids. SO MANY SCREAMING KIDS. I could go on and on but I think you get the point.
So here I am faced with another choice: Cry about it…or laugh about it. OK; I do both, but I laugh a heck of a lot more than I cry. I laugh more with Brian than I have with anyone in my entire life. I am pretty sure that we are laughing at my jokes 99% of time, but he’s a good audience. (See how funny I am?) Maybe that’s my really-fishing-for-an-inspirational message. Stay through the mess…and try to have a sense of humor about it. What if it’s that simple?
I’m starting to realize that we always have a choice, a choice to inch a little closer toward happiness/love/you name it or a little further away from it. So today—right now—I am going to move toward it. I am going to go forgive Brian for eating my sweet potato fries and snuggle up with him on the couch to watch Season 6, Episode 17 of such and such crime show. Because I love him. And he/we make me laugh.
Oh, and if you’re in the neighborhood and want to stop by and say hi, just look for the giant brown penis spray painted on the sidewalk. Our neighbors are also super artsy.
