It’s hard to come up with things to write about these days.
I could write about my new house, but, truthfully, I’m not there all that often. I’ve been staying at Billy’s house for the last…well…since we started dating, pretty much. My life is split between the place that I call my home, and the place that is his. The essentials travel with me these days: Makeup, zit cream, deodorant, perfume, razor. Actually, they were traveling; as of right now, they’re conquering Billy’s counter space, encroaching on his Allure Homme cologne and Speedstick. A toothbrush of mine has taken up permanent residence in his holder. Underwear and clothes are rotated in and out of his bedroom via a daily stop at my house. A large silver bag sits in my car every day, waiting to be flushed of yesterday’s garments and filled with tomorrow’s wardrobe. The weeks that take Billy out of town to work find me in my own home, a stranger within its newly painted walls. I don’t know what to do with myself when I’m there: No cable, no internet, no boyfriend. It’s a strange feeling. This is the first time I’ve spent this much consecutive time with a boyfriend. A weekend here or there, yes. But every night? Getting ready for work right after him, the bathroom still smelling of cologne and soap? Reminding him before he leaves for work of something he’s supposed to do? Nodding my head in approval of his tie selection for the day? This is new. And scrumptious.
Or I could write about how happy I am right now. How often I find myself smiling. How people ask me “How are you today?” and I say “Great,” and actually mean it. I could detail all the cute little moments that my new beau and I share, the alternately salacious and sweet text messages we’ve taken to sending one another. I could write about how much I want to see him, how I’m in the blissful stage that demands I spend every free second of my day either thinking of or seeing him. How I actually miss him when he’s not around. What a good boyfriend he is. But is anybody really all that interested in reading me go on - and on and on - about how great he is? I think I may be approaching saturation point as far as gushing about my boyfriend goes.
But therein lies the problem: Being happy, writing just doesn’t come that easily. When I’m upset, angry, heartbroken, I’m eager to get the words and thoughts out of me and onto paper. I’m anxious to expel the frustration and sadness, so that the problems aren’t rolling around in my brain attempting to eat me alive. But when I’m happy, I want to keep it all in. Savor it. The pieces I’m willing to spare wind up falling short, lacking the true passion of the moment or my emotion. It’s easier to describe the pain you feel in heartbreak because you can liken it to physical pain – Knives, daggers, bruises, spears; crushed, broken, beaten. These words are certain: They’re painful to everyone across the board. I may be going out on a limb, but I’m going to go ahead and assume that no one likes to be stabbed. And most, save for a certain sector, don’t enjoy being crushed or beaten. Each word makes you cringe, so you know what the writer meant exactly. But what do you use to adequately describe elation? What encompasses Happy? You can describe how your belly feels, how the beat in your chest revs up, how your hands shake with nerves when you see that certain someone, but where do you go from there? There’s so much more. And the words you choose don't do the situation justice, then all the better words you want to use to describe how you feel rush to the forefront of your mind creating gridlock. And the only word that eeks out is “happy,” or “great.” And you feel like a nincompoop.
So it’s Friday now, and I haven’t posted since Tuesday. Not because there’s nothing to report, but because things are going so well. This weekend, I’ll wrap myself in my boyfriend, we’ll watch a movie or two, I’ll go dancing with my friend Derek, and, hopefully, I’ll be so content through Sunday that I’ll still be at a loss for subject matter.
But I suppose worse things could happen, right?