I came home from boot camp the other morning and my cute boy was bustling about in running shorts and the coffee table was pushed to the side of the room.
“Were you doing some kind of workout?” I asked him.
And he says, “I was practicing my dancing.”
David has recently decided that he would like to take up break dancing and got himself instructional video, which came with two free beanie hats. Sometimes he wears those to get in the mood while he’s practicing his dancing.
He told me a little bit about what he’d worked on today and I said that I thought it was awfully early to be getting up for such things (we were having this conversation at 7 am.)
His response? “I could wake up and think, ‘ho hum, it’s off to work for me’ or I could wake up and I can dance!”
This particular day did happen to be my birthday and I was already feeling a bit sobsome because of it, but I got a special welling when I heard that. I get to be with a guy who actually feels those made-up emotions, like “joy” and “glee.”
It humbles me.
I am horrified to report that The David crash crash crashity crashed his car yesterday while coming home from Tahoe by himself. On the 80. Going 70 mph. Crash into the guardrail. Spin out. And then facing the oncoming traffic. And he has no idea why it happened.
Important take aways here:
THE DAVID IS NOT DEAD.
The David is not hurt.
No other cars crashed in to him and no one else was hurt.
Even so, I can’t think about it without feeling nervous and panicked and possibly like pooping. And I can’t stop thinking about it. Because oh my god, what if. What If?! I am refusing to actually expand upon the rest of the “what if” thought because it’s just to awful to imagine. Or talk about. Or write about.
So I’m just generically freaking out.
And now, without a car, he’s biking in to work and planning to do so indefinitely, which makes me nervous, as well. All that unprotected poppet body exposed to the elements and the automobiles!
How rather perversely horrible it is to care about someone so much that you have all this worry and fear about what the outside world might do to him. When it might be so much nicer to just stay safe in a little nest where I can make lots of macaroni and cheese and no one ever gets paper cuts.
David woke up yesterday and decided that it was time for some shopping and that it was high time we got a new mattress and that he had himself a wii.
We’ve been sleeping on my mattress, the one that Jessica and I bought 10 years ago when we’d just moved to California. There was a plan for getting beds:
1. Sleep on the floor, with mats and blankets. Save up!
2. Buy one mattress and sleep together. Continue with the saving.
3. Buy a second mattress.
4. Get box springs and frames.
After 3 nights of sleeping on the floor in our new apartment, we caved and abandoned the plan completely. We went into Oakland Chinatown and bought the cheapest mattresses we could find. They were an atrocious turquoise floral pattern and generally about as crappy as they come at $100 each. But that’s the bed I had, and I never got around to having a spare gabillion dollars to have a new one.
It’s been 10 years and as bad as the bed is, it’s my favorite place. I don’t think there’s anything finer than waking up on a weekend morning and just lingering in this warm place with a drowsy boy, to talk and be close to one another.
It’s the same bedroom and the same headboard. It’s just a new mattress. But this one is our mattress. It’s an investment in our nest of together. As much as I’m looking forward to some better nights’ sleep, I’m more glad to be a part of this relationship and all of the new things we’ll do together. This is the bed I made, and I can’t wait to sleep in it.
photograph by virginia kuo
Twenty months ago today, I met my David, and I can’t believe that it’s still a relationship that I can measure in months. It feels like he’s been my person for my whole life.
It also feels like I won the lottery, so it doesn’t much matter if that happened 20 months ago, or 20 years ago, or yesterday. I seriously got the best one.
But just so you don’t get jealous, he does gurgle a lot.
Filed under The David, Today
MH Jeeves - Grumpy Love
I feel a bit like this… can’t focus on the wonderful thing I have around me, because I’m surrounding myself with a field of grump. So thankful for my wonderful David, and sorry that I can’t get myself to snap out of the funk. I do know that it’s there, though… I can see those floating hearts all around.
David turns thirty
My sweet boy turned 30 years old on Saturday.
Yesterday was the one year anniversary of our first date.
While I wax poetic on how lucky I am and how happy I’ve been, the fellow is off in Yosemite for a long weekend and I’m actually feeling rather mournful. I miss him.
Watching my boyfriend become the room mate of a cat has been amusing and endearing.
Maple, like all cats, is an odd little creature. She plays fetch. She yowls incessently. She sneaks into the bathtub to sit in it when it’s wet. And she likes to lick stuff. Anything smooth and flat and quite often, people skin.
She likes to come sit on us in bed, perching attentively on hip or on David’s chest. Quite cutely, sometimes she’ll reach out a paw to touch one of our faces.
And David, my sweet sweet sweet boy, he will take a hand out from underneath the covers just to give it to Maple to start licking and nipping on. That’s reason number seven hundred and twelve that I love him.
First there was the wine bar.
And then there was the picnic with the pitted cherries.
And then, and then! Then there was the night that we made fruit tartlets, which we took, along with a bottle of champagne, to the rose garden down the road. In the gloamy twilight, we drank champagne and ate our wee fruit tartlets amongs the rose garden, in glorious bloom. It was lovely, and I was enchanted.
Possibly also drunk.
But in a nice golden, bubbly champagne sort of way.
Because he basically lived at my apartment, we made the decision a while back that David would move in with me. We picked February 1 as the official date, and then we pretty much did nothing about it. So that his old apartment still had a bunch of stuff in it and he felt obligated to pay his room mate there for the month’s rent.
After we conceded that we really needed to take a weekend off of Tahoe-ing to make this happen, we set a new deadline for the official move-out/move-in as March 1. And so, I watched him sort through lots of stuff, determining what could be thrown away and what should be relegated to one of his various hiking backpacks to bring over. Said backpacks are now in piles throughout the apartment, mingling happily with the piles of totes-o-crap that I collected from my towed away car on Sunday. There is a certain charm rendered by a pile, at least in my apartment, anyway.
I keep saying “You’re my room mate!” to David. And it feels funny. Grown-up. Even though I’ve already done this part. But I amazed that it is real. That he wants to live with me and my bonkers cat. (Speaking of which, observations of David and Maple could, and maybe will, be a whole separate post.) I get a person who makes decisions about what to eat for dinner. And puts up shelves. With a drill(!) no less. A person who will pair my socks. A person who will even go looking around in all the places that I might be inclined to discard socks, when it is time to do laundry. I get to live with a person who will always want to sneak onto my side of the bed, no matter how big that bed might be.
P.S. He also wipes the fogged-up bathroom mirrors with toilet paper, the lintiest material known to mankind.