To All Our Somedays
So the boy and I celebrated our one year anniversary two weekends ago. I debated whether or not I needed to blog about it—I feel like so much of this blog is really a testament as to how much I feel for him, that if I would ever need to look back for remembrance that I had more than enough passages of how much I felt for Johnno.
Because at the end of the day—the details to the actual day don’t matter much. That we woke up early to get all our chores out of the way for the weekend. About how I tricked Johnno into thinking we were going somewhere local but ending up in Hollywood? About buying hats at H & M… Sharing a hotel bar with Lauren Conrad and her boyfriend while we slammed down burgers and eggs sandwiches?
The only funny detail about the whole evening is how our drunk bartender forgot to charge us for drinks but I didn’t notice until I left and at that point was so annoyed at the wait for our bill that I was over it. So I spent my anniversary doing a drink and ditch.
What is important is how different this feels from all the other times I thought I was in endgame love. Because the truth is-if I am honest-I always knew the expiration point when I’ve been in love in the past. Not the actual date, there was no timeline but the emotional point after which the relationship would cease to be anymore than convenience and the sexual equivalent of comfort food.
Basically a human body pillow.
With Samuel I always knew that his lack of responsibility would be the thing that broke us up in the end—that no matter how talented he was, how passionate about writing and art and all the things that are so blasé to my friends—he would never pull himself together enough to be someone I could trust to build my life with. I was so sacred that if I trusted that he could take care of both of us that I would end up in a cardboard box out on the street—he called me a snob for thinking this way. But I tried to expand my expectations and overcome my fears of dependency but at the end—I didn’t trust that he would grow up.
Call it a deal breaker but I’m no pedophile.
Speaking of children-gross—when it came down to the truth of me and Enrique I always knew that we never really wanted the same endgame. He never wanted to be married or settled, to share a house or have children. This should have scared me away. But these were all things at 23 that I knew that I wanted but, being 23, I figured that he would eventually change his mind because he would love me enough to want the same kind of happiness I wanted.
Because at 23 you still believe that you can be an Effie—that you can make someone love when everyone else knows it is hopeless. This is a thought process only acceptable in 23 year olds. That’s it. No exceptions.
But with Johnno-everything is so different. Am I scared of things? All the time.
I’m scared when he drives home late in the rain from my place. I’m scared that he doesn’t stand up enough for himself in the moment and that he gets hurt because of it. I’m scared that I’m too moody and mean and bitchy to be a good enough person for him. I’m scared that I don’t do enough, have enough, and am capable of enough to deserve him.
Most of all—I’m scared at the idea that he won’t be there someday. So much so that when things have happened—random things like tripping on stairs or near misses in the car—that I get lightheaded and sick to my stomach at the idea of something happening.
I literally cannot sleep at the thought.
Because I love him. That’s it, the simple answer, the only constant in our dynamic, the thing that is obvious in pictures and felt in person by anyone who knows us. He has made the last year of my life so amazing and so full of things I never knew I could have.
To be loved
I can only hope I do the same for him. It feels selfish to put this down in words because it is only mine and not ours. That’s how I know I love him—that I have things that belong to just us and I don’t even know how to began to explain or share that. I just don’t know.
But someday I will.