It was a year ago last week, that My Love and I decided to "make it official" to stamp a label on it and stop drunkenly (er, desperately?) kissing strangers and flirting with fuglies for a little admiration.
...we met, I say, "accidentally." I had a little "Glee" in my step, had just returned aimlessly from Europe and thought next I'd be India bound, or sipping caipirinha's in Brazil, or living in Santa Barbara with "Luca" who I'd met on a train ride (he could've been a figment of my imagination, he looked like an Italian Jude Law, 6'4 and was a personal chef- why we didn't bone, I have no idea?)- that is, after the holidays. So, WTF would I do until my next "big adventure," i'd sing in a show!! Genius.
One evening, my Europe-inspired-cockiness and I went unprepared to an audition- that, if I booked, would keep me occupied for the winter and give me the chance to flex the golden pipes three times a week in public. No music, no appointment- I showed up, I booked the gig. I booked the lead character, get this; an impregnated, Catholic school girl- knocked up by a gay boy. Brilliance right? There was even a sex scene. Very Spring Awakening, just less awesome.
Turns out, my wayward Love needed something to do for the holidays too- he accepted the gig through a friend and played guitar in the show.....the rest, as they say- is history, i.e. an amazing year of unparalleled orgasms, life-changing conversation and someone to watch The Kardashians with.
I knew that first night, as he fumbled with my bracelets across the table, finding an excuse to touch my skin and mustered up the courage to ask if I'd want to go "grab a bite," which latter turned into "makeout like horny 16 year kids in my car" fest, that he'd be my boyfriend, that I could stare at those brilliant curls and sparkly eyes everyday. Fuck, going to India! I'm in LOOOOVE!
A little over a year ago- I was convincing myself I'd be "ok" semi-dating potential suitors, who would prove to be less than charming and fantastic, and that at the end of the night I wouldn't cry in bed, wishing there was a warm body next to me. I would be that Single Girl who wore lingerie just because and picked up men who wore nice suits, then leave their high-rise with heels dangling from my hand, before they woke up to take my-satisfied-self for french toast and a mimosa. I didn't need their company, I was confident- people wanted me. I had a bevy of admirers. I would talk about, how "I'd just adopt" if I never got married, or knocked up. I'd take long bubble baths alone and live in my bathrobe like it were a pair of his boxer shorts. I'd impress my relatives at the holidays when they asked why I didn't have a "man," with my audacious self assurance and wit, then like a snake charmer I'd weave stories they'd live vicariously through as they lapped up spinach dip and tall tales, only to go home wishing to be single for one. more. day. I would star as the Eva Mendas in my own life......
...this of course, was what I thought- I could be. But a year ago, I wasn't that. I wanted kisses and snuggles, someone to tell me they loved the baby hairs around my temples. Single Girl wasn't having fun cooking single-serve dinners (hi, I'm not good at math, try changing recipes) and Single Girl certainly didn't dig on the awkward front-door-kiss. What the hell Eva Mendes movie is this? One where she's fucking 16 and going to prom. FUCK. THAT. I'll be a spinster.
I'd given up. My white flag was raised. And I applied coats of Mac Lip Glass to make that plastered smile SHINE, betch. Then he was there.....
He listened. He wanted to be there for every moment, good and bad to toast a glass with me, or let me scream like a lunatic while he "shhhed" me quietly, like a baby, back to sanity. He watched me when I slept...and I didn't think that'd happen again unless someone was checking to see if I was dead. He calmed me, centered me- made me present. He made me feel weightless, talented, validated- dare I say, perfect even?
This year we've grown in love with each other and I knew from the first date where we downed truffle oil fries, that I could be happy with him. We've created music together, toured, recorded, sold out shows and bombed others. We've hiked mountains (literally), confessed the worst of secrets, panicked and overcome together. We've built on dreams and created new ones. We've jaunted all over New York, New Mexico, Washinton, Oregon, Vail, Breckenridge and Colorado. We've tried walking out, then walked back out of guilt and fortitude. We've consumed too much PBR and even more walnut pizza (if you haven't had it, do it- add walnuts.) We tried hot tub sex, not worth it, but we tried and I even have a sex scar. Call me, hardcore.
Daggers have been thrown, but never more than "I love you's." I know, you're gagging. What it all comes down to, is; I love his fucking face. I admire his spirit. I'm awed by his intelligence. I am lucky.....that he found me. And I like his penis. The end.
Stop throwing up on your keyboards now. Happy Anniversary Baby.