Since I was little, I always thought
the coolest job in the world would be to be a Christmas tree farmer. On
the surface, I think I thought it would awesome to be a part of a
favorite holiday for many people, but now, I realize that the job
fascinated me because Christmas tree farms are almost always perfectly
groomed. The trees stand in straight rows and are generally of the same
height and circumference. I find such order very aesthetically pleasing.
This is the same reason I always like climbing on to a school bus. I
like how the bench seats are always in perfectly straight rows.
I have extended such order into my own life. Though I’ve dated for more years than Dakota Fanning has been alive, I’ve never been asked to share my life with someone. I like having guests at my apartment, but I like it even better when they leave, so I can straighten everything that’s been touched or moved. It’s a sign, I think, that I’ve lived alone for too long. I like my stuff and I like it to be where I left it.
A few years ago, I wrote a column about this very problem I have with sharing. I look back on that column and laugh at myself because I didn’t even come close to understanding what it means to share with someone.
Sharing a soda or a car ride is something you do with a friend, but true sharing can only take place when someone demands a part of something you don’t want to give up.
I’ve recently started dating a man, Peter, who wants to fold himself into my life. He is a delightful person who brings me flowers and chocolate and lets me hold the remote. In return, I cook him dinner and help him decorate his house. Peter is a very thoughtful man. He wants me to be comfortable and happy. These are all good things.
One Friday, Peter and I decided to have a weekend sleepover. In my mind, Peter would stay the night, enjoy a light breakfast, and then be off doing whatever he needed to do on Saturday. Then, he’d return in the evening, stay another night, enjoy another light breakfast, and be off by Sunday at noon at the latest.
When Peter arrived with a weekend bag, his laptop, and various toiletries, I was surprised but directed him to store his stuff in my study (I had recently decided that he could hang his coat in my coat closet rather than leaving it on the arm of the couch in the study because apparently, I’m possessive over even my coat closet). We watched a movie and when it was time to retire, I locked myself in the bathroom under the pretense of taking care of “girlie” stuff. Instead, I sat on the side of the bathtub and whispered to myself, “I can’t handle this. He’s not going to leave?!? What are we going to talk about for the whole weekend? Is he going to go with me to do my weekly marketing? Can I still get my laundry done?” I took a Tylenol PM and emerged from the bathroom smiling and so dopey that I fell right asleep.
It turns out I had nothing to worry about. Our conversations never lagged, and I really enjoyed taking him on my Saturday chores of recycling and marketing. On Sunday, we stayed in our jammies and watched the Food Network. I felt so comfortable and relaxed that I was actually reluctant to see him go. Of course I manically straightened the house when he left, but I was glad that I saw the weekend through.
Since then, we’ve had plenty more sleepovers and I’ve slowly let Peter become part of my strange rituals. I like to make my bed as soon as I wake up, and of course, I like my bed to be made in a certain way with the pillows fluffed just so. When Peter offered to make my bed while I fixed breakfast, I balked at first, but then remembered that it was laundry day and the sheets just needed to be stripped off the bed and tossed in the washer. I instructed him to do just that, but soon, he came into the kitchen and asked, “What should I do with the safety pins in the pillows?” The safety pins!?! Holy crap! I shoved past Peter, inadvertently pushing him into the door frame, and trotted down the hall saying, “I told you NOT to take the cases off the big pillows!”
In my crazy world, I safety pin cases onto the decorative bed pillows so I don’t have to keep rearranging the cases every time I fluff the pillows. If Peter saw the safety pins, he’d know I was a fraud! Pretty soon, he’d be looking into my bureau drawers and discover that my sock drawer is a disaster area! I may be all clean and neat on the outside, but open a closet door and you’ll see I’m a pack rat of the first order.
When I took a breath and saw Peter splatted against the kitchen door frame, terrified of my reaction, I realized that I’ve become ridiculous about my stuff and my space. I mean, really, who cares about my safety-pinned pillow cases? Soon, I learned that Peter would discover things about me that I didn’t even know about myself.
I’ve mentioned in a previous column that I’m a vegetarian. Except for the occasional slab of bacon (damn, why is that so good?), I’ve been off meat for about fifteen years. This means that I need to substitute protein in other forms, and since I’m not a tofu eater, I consume a lot of beans. You see where this is leading. I have problems with, let’s say, food talking behind my back. I’ve generally kept this problem under wraps by living alone for most of those fifteen meat-free years.
But now that Peter’s on the scene both day and night, he’s been witness to some of my back-talking behavior. For the most part, I excused myself in time, but a particular active tickling session led to an accidental eruption. After that, I started letting go in front of Peter, and to my surprise and delight, he thought it was hilarious, and he made little jokes about my ability to propel small airplanes.
As we slept one night, however, I woke to hear myself tooting a little in my sleep. I was so sleepy that I just rolled over and completely forgot about it until morning. After I woke, I asked Peter if I had farted in my sleep, and he just smiled and said, “Well….maybe a little.” I apologized and said that I didn’t usually do that. “Well,” he said, “I wouldn’t necessarily say that.” What?!? How often, I asked, every night? “Every other night,” he said.
And that was it. That was the moment I realized that I am the problem. No wonder I haven’t been able to keep a relationship together. I’ve been literally propelling them out of my bed!
Yet I have found a man who hasn’t kicked me out of the bed. In fact, Peter hugs me closer instead of shipping me off to the guest room. He wants more of me, not less, and for that, I’m happy to share my orderly life with him, safety pins, sleep farting, and all. Just wait ‘til he sees how I fold my towels. That’ll teach him.
I have extended such order into my own life. Though I’ve dated for more years than Dakota Fanning has been alive, I’ve never been asked to share my life with someone. I like having guests at my apartment, but I like it even better when they leave, so I can straighten everything that’s been touched or moved. It’s a sign, I think, that I’ve lived alone for too long. I like my stuff and I like it to be where I left it.
A few years ago, I wrote a column about this very problem I have with sharing. I look back on that column and laugh at myself because I didn’t even come close to understanding what it means to share with someone.
Sharing a soda or a car ride is something you do with a friend, but true sharing can only take place when someone demands a part of something you don’t want to give up.
I’ve recently started dating a man, Peter, who wants to fold himself into my life. He is a delightful person who brings me flowers and chocolate and lets me hold the remote. In return, I cook him dinner and help him decorate his house. Peter is a very thoughtful man. He wants me to be comfortable and happy. These are all good things.
One Friday, Peter and I decided to have a weekend sleepover. In my mind, Peter would stay the night, enjoy a light breakfast, and then be off doing whatever he needed to do on Saturday. Then, he’d return in the evening, stay another night, enjoy another light breakfast, and be off by Sunday at noon at the latest.
When Peter arrived with a weekend bag, his laptop, and various toiletries, I was surprised but directed him to store his stuff in my study (I had recently decided that he could hang his coat in my coat closet rather than leaving it on the arm of the couch in the study because apparently, I’m possessive over even my coat closet). We watched a movie and when it was time to retire, I locked myself in the bathroom under the pretense of taking care of “girlie” stuff. Instead, I sat on the side of the bathtub and whispered to myself, “I can’t handle this. He’s not going to leave?!? What are we going to talk about for the whole weekend? Is he going to go with me to do my weekly marketing? Can I still get my laundry done?” I took a Tylenol PM and emerged from the bathroom smiling and so dopey that I fell right asleep.
It turns out I had nothing to worry about. Our conversations never lagged, and I really enjoyed taking him on my Saturday chores of recycling and marketing. On Sunday, we stayed in our jammies and watched the Food Network. I felt so comfortable and relaxed that I was actually reluctant to see him go. Of course I manically straightened the house when he left, but I was glad that I saw the weekend through.
Since then, we’ve had plenty more sleepovers and I’ve slowly let Peter become part of my strange rituals. I like to make my bed as soon as I wake up, and of course, I like my bed to be made in a certain way with the pillows fluffed just so. When Peter offered to make my bed while I fixed breakfast, I balked at first, but then remembered that it was laundry day and the sheets just needed to be stripped off the bed and tossed in the washer. I instructed him to do just that, but soon, he came into the kitchen and asked, “What should I do with the safety pins in the pillows?” The safety pins!?! Holy crap! I shoved past Peter, inadvertently pushing him into the door frame, and trotted down the hall saying, “I told you NOT to take the cases off the big pillows!”
In my crazy world, I safety pin cases onto the decorative bed pillows so I don’t have to keep rearranging the cases every time I fluff the pillows. If Peter saw the safety pins, he’d know I was a fraud! Pretty soon, he’d be looking into my bureau drawers and discover that my sock drawer is a disaster area! I may be all clean and neat on the outside, but open a closet door and you’ll see I’m a pack rat of the first order.
When I took a breath and saw Peter splatted against the kitchen door frame, terrified of my reaction, I realized that I’ve become ridiculous about my stuff and my space. I mean, really, who cares about my safety-pinned pillow cases? Soon, I learned that Peter would discover things about me that I didn’t even know about myself.
I’ve mentioned in a previous column that I’m a vegetarian. Except for the occasional slab of bacon (damn, why is that so good?), I’ve been off meat for about fifteen years. This means that I need to substitute protein in other forms, and since I’m not a tofu eater, I consume a lot of beans. You see where this is leading. I have problems with, let’s say, food talking behind my back. I’ve generally kept this problem under wraps by living alone for most of those fifteen meat-free years.
But now that Peter’s on the scene both day and night, he’s been witness to some of my back-talking behavior. For the most part, I excused myself in time, but a particular active tickling session led to an accidental eruption. After that, I started letting go in front of Peter, and to my surprise and delight, he thought it was hilarious, and he made little jokes about my ability to propel small airplanes.
As we slept one night, however, I woke to hear myself tooting a little in my sleep. I was so sleepy that I just rolled over and completely forgot about it until morning. After I woke, I asked Peter if I had farted in my sleep, and he just smiled and said, “Well….maybe a little.” I apologized and said that I didn’t usually do that. “Well,” he said, “I wouldn’t necessarily say that.” What?!? How often, I asked, every night? “Every other night,” he said.
And that was it. That was the moment I realized that I am the problem. No wonder I haven’t been able to keep a relationship together. I’ve been literally propelling them out of my bed!
Yet I have found a man who hasn’t kicked me out of the bed. In fact, Peter hugs me closer instead of shipping me off to the guest room. He wants more of me, not less, and for that, I’m happy to share my orderly life with him, safety pins, sleep farting, and all. Just wait ‘til he sees how I fold my towels. That’ll teach him.
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