We’re having one of those sobbing fights about nothing at all; it’s our first one and we’re making a whole day of it. I’m saying I’m disappointed about dirty laundry all over the floor, but really I’m disappointed that after a lifetime of waiting, I’ve met my match and unless I manage to mess things up between us all the suspense is over forever. From now on, I will just be picking up his laundry. He’s saying I’m too demanding, but what he means is I’m crazy, and on both accounts he is more or less correct. But I am also the best girl he’s ever had, and he will do anything to keep me.
This is how people get married.
It’s the time to get married. Everyone is doing it, even my jaded New York friends who have prolonged their personal dreams and ambitions far beyond the point of the average middle-American. Even they are sending me “Save-the-Date” cards and registering for kitchenware and getting pregnant. And every day, I find myself more content to make dinner and sit on the couch with my boyfriend, less driven to do something that “matters,” whatever that means. I’m sure it means something, but less sure than I used to be. These days, I am a lot less of things I used to be, and a lot more of other things, like fat and normal.
No. I’ve been fatter than this before. I survived.
I ride my bike to work now, and sincerely care about things I couldn’t even pretend to care about before. I make dinner and pack lunches. I tell him things are going to be alright when he’s down, and he tells me so too when I am, which is about once a month, just like ugly, bleeding, clockwork. I don’t really make friends anymore, but I am better at listening to people. There are lots of things we don’t have conversations about, he and I, but we can spend time together like we’ll never run out of it.
We will, of course. All of us will. Sometimes knowing so is my only comfort.