“I read your blog,” said my fellow gym-member yesterday as we each wiggled into our respective gym clothes in the locker room.
My eyes went wide as I tied my new sneakers. “Oh yeah?” I said as I searched my brain for anything possibly offensive I may have written. It’s my standard reaction anytime I hear that someone I know in real life has found my piece of the internet.
“I think my favorite line,” she said, pulling her shirt over her head, “was ‘the sight of [Billy] walking into a room is followed immediately by the sound of hundreds of panties falling to the floor.’” We both laughed. “What is he, made of chocolate or something?”
“To me he is.”
She zipped up her bag and tossed it on the floor. “You are so in love, it’s disgusting.”
It’s true. I am. It is disgusting. But I can’t help it. In fact, I’m so in love with that man that I spent the better part of yesterday being mad because he chose to spend the previous night playing video games instead of hanging out with me. Because that’s totally justified, right? Being mad because your boyfriend – who spends approximately 98.76% of his very sparse free time with you – decided to actually spend a little bit of that free time on himself?
I thought so – because I needed him, and he chose PS2. That, to me, was reason enough to get all salty and bent out of shape. I relayed my woes to my mother via email, and was met with a response that went a little something like this: Oh, STOP it. He deserves time with himself or his friends. Stop acting like a spoiled kid.
That’s the abridged version of what she wrote, but it really gets the point across. It’s true, I was acting like a brat who didn’t get her way and, therefore, decided to throw a tantrum. And I was totally out of line. And I knew that, even while I was sticking out my lower lip and threatening to stomp my feet. But it didn’t make me any more agreeable.
My reasons, though arguable, all boil down to me loving him. Because, when he’s home, I want to be with him. It doesn’t matter that we’ve spent the last three days attached at the hip, that we spent the better part of his New Year’s Day birthday in bed. It doesn’t matter that we live together, that we talk during the day, that I’ll see him tomorrow. The only thing that matters is that the time he’s choosing to spend a floor away from me is time we could be spending together. And I want to spend it together: Why doesn’t he?
What’s hard to remember is that he works so much. And while I’m visiting my friends, driving around by myself, shopping alone, doing laundry, tooling around on the internet, going to the gym, seeing my family, he’s at work. While I’m marinating in alone time, he’s at work. While I’m fulfilling social obligations, he’s at work. And I’m getting everything I need to get done out of the way before he even thinks about getting in the car to head home. So it’s hard to remember that those things, for him, still need to be tended to: The time with friends, family, himself. The way I see it, from my selfish vantage point, those things have been taken care of already, and I’ve been saving up my day, just waiting, with baited breath and expectant eyes, for him to come home so I can see him.
And, if I had the choice, I’d spend my every second with him. I’d talk to him until his ears bled, until my vocal chords wore thin and snapped. Because I want to share all of me with him: From the start of my day to the fuzzy end. I want him to know it all. And I want him to want to know it all.
And, usually, he does. But, sometimes, he just wants to relax. He wants to spend most of his time with me, but sometimes, he needs time alone. And I know it, I do.
But it’s hard to remember that when I get giddy with the sound of his footsteps downstairs; When all I want to do is curl up in his tired, warm arms. I’m childish in my excitement to see him, so why wouldn’t I be childish in my reaction to not seeing him?
So, yeah, he must be made of chocolate.