Over the weekend, while packing, I ran across a poem my then-boyfriend sent me, senior year of high school, all about how he’d always be there for me. He was a great guy— someone who saw a lot in me at a time when most people couldn’t see the real me. He could see a future for us, and though I loved him, I wasn’t in love with him, and I didn’t want to take advantage. I’ve been pretty ruthless about getting rid of things while packing, but I think I had the good sense to keep that one.
The move draws ever nearer, and it’s becoming clear that mom is not looking forward to living with my pets. She’s kind of a silent partner in buying the house— she’s providing significant funding, but her name isn’t on the paperwork, so she’s not getting invited to things. So I invited her to the closing. The dog and the male cat and I will be staying with her while things are up in the air. She asked me yesterday “will we bring the dog?”
To a business meeting, in the hottest part of July, where we’d need to leave him in the car? “Um, no. If you don’t want him left alone in your place, then you have to stay with him, because I actually have to be there to sign things.”
I had kind of an interesting conversation with my mom last night that veered off course when she said “I can’t believe she found someone and you didn’t.”
We’ve reached the point in the move I hate the most— the point where I’ve started on packing in every area, everything is out and nothing’s quite done. I’ve packed several boxes, and I’ve accomplished many things, but every room still has those things I haven’t gotten around to yet.
I’m someone who spends a lot of time in my head. I tend to overanalyze, to plan what I say a little more than your average person, to really know what I have in mind before I act.
We could overanalyze even that, and talk about whether it’s introversion or my broader Myers-Briggs type or something else that makes me that way. But let’s just start with the fact that I struggle to stay present.
My boy and I celebrated 15 years together, recently. He’s not really who I thought I’d spend my life with after college, but I couldn’t have asked for anyone to love me more completely than he does. His devotion to me is epic, his adoration exponentially larger than his less than 15 pounds. He makes room for others in my life— he’s weathered my living with a landlord, a brother, a nephew, my mother, and on our own, not to mention the female cat and now the dog— and he has grudgingly and sometimes graciously, depending on the guy, shared me with boyfriends as they’ve come and gone, through the years.
When I graduated college, I had this idea that if I was going to get ahead professionally, I was going to have to learn to play golf. It kind of makes me laugh to think about it, but it’s not entirely untrue. So I talked to my dad and he took me to the golf course and we practiced putting, and one of my brothers took me to the driving range, and my dad found a used bag and collected an assortment of secondhand clubs for me to use. He filled the bag with tees and secondhand balls and ball markers and divot repair tools and attached a towel and a set of wheels to it. He gave it to me, not as a gift, per se, but just as a “hey, I know you’re working on this and I put this together for you.” He walked me through everything in the bag. I was very touched.