It’s my boyfriend Preppy’s birthday, and we’re seated in a plane awaiting takeoff. There’s the little surge of excitement, because this is the first time we’ve flown anywhere together. It’s one of those tiny puddle-jumper planes, like celebrities fly after they’ve gotten their pilot’s license. I half expect Patrick Swayze or Angelina Jolie to step out of the cockpit and sign autographs for the passengers.
Thinking of Angelina makes me remember to add “A Mighty Heart” to my Netflix queue when I get home. I meant to see it in theatres, but I went to see that movie with the talking rats instead. I felt awful about it at the time, because I knew “A Mighty Heart” was a more important film, and I try to support such things, but those damn talking rats were funny.
“You wanna go get margaritas later?” asks Preppy.
“Anything you want, it’s your day.”
He smiles.
“I love you.”
“Love you too. Wanna move into my house?”
“Absolutely.”
This is the five-hundredth time I’ve asked him this question since I made the official offer a week ago. I keep asking because I like it so much when he says yes again.
“You wanna go get margaritas later?” asks Preppy.
“Anything you want, it’s your day.”
He smiles.
“I love you.”
“Love you too. Wanna move into my house?”
“Absolutely.”
This is the five-hundredth time I’ve asked him this question since I made the official offer a week ago. I keep asking because I like it so much when he says yes again.
Preppy is kind enough to indulge me.
When The Ex moved in with me, it was because he was on summer break from college and had to move out of the dorms. We figured we’d try it for a few months, and if it was a complete disaster, he could move back on campus when the new semester started. All of his worldly possessions amounted to one carload: His clothes, a computer, some photos, bathroom stuff. He might have owned a coffee mug. The first summer we were together, we went six weeks without electricity because neither of us could afford the bills. That’s the beautiful thing about being nineteen, in love, and kinda stupid- You can still romanticize all of these glaring deficiencies.
But, as trips to the bar so painfully remind me, I am not nineteen anymore.
This is totally different. Preppy has his own home and life up in Smyrna. A move will require actual planning, and a truck of some kind. Various agencies will be notified of a new address. Phrases like “Will my hutch fit in the dining room?” are being bandied about. We’re two grown men, making a very big decision: We’ve learned from past experience that once you move in, there’s never going to be a time that you DON’T live together again… unless you’re no longer together. So is renting a U-Haul tempting fate in some way? Should we leave well enough alone and maintain separate households, even though he goes back to his place roughly once every two weeks?
When Preppy and I started dating, I came to the realization that I had spent two years being very careful approaching relationships, because I didn’t want to be hurt again. This policy had unfortunately led to a series of men who felt that I was always holding something back, keeping them at a safe distance. I had to learn the difficult lesson that a life lived without risk tends to be a life without much joy.
So we’re taking the risk.
“Okay, gentlemen, we’re at fourteen thousand feet, let’s go!”
The guy at the front of the plane gestures to Preppy and me, and we are shoved forward by the men seated behind us.
“Baby, I love you, this is the best present ever!” says Preppy. I don’t have time to respond, however.
Because my boyfriend just jumped out of the fucking plane.
If you ever want to know how you really feel about someone, I encourage you to experience the sight of their body falling towards Earth at 140 miles per hour. There’s no time to think, just react. We’ve already established that whatever adventures lie ahead will be experienced together. So I fall out after him, into the open sky, an odd cocktail of terror and exhilaration overwhelming me as I burst through clouds and the cities below come into view. Then the chute opens, I snap back up, and I’m fine. Delighted, actually. I float along, enjoying cool breeze on my face, another fear conquered. It’s a little easier letting go now, safe in the knowledge that someone’s waiting for me when I reach the ground.
When The Ex moved in with me, it was because he was on summer break from college and had to move out of the dorms. We figured we’d try it for a few months, and if it was a complete disaster, he could move back on campus when the new semester started. All of his worldly possessions amounted to one carload: His clothes, a computer, some photos, bathroom stuff. He might have owned a coffee mug. The first summer we were together, we went six weeks without electricity because neither of us could afford the bills. That’s the beautiful thing about being nineteen, in love, and kinda stupid- You can still romanticize all of these glaring deficiencies.
But, as trips to the bar so painfully remind me, I am not nineteen anymore.
This is totally different. Preppy has his own home and life up in Smyrna. A move will require actual planning, and a truck of some kind. Various agencies will be notified of a new address. Phrases like “Will my hutch fit in the dining room?” are being bandied about. We’re two grown men, making a very big decision: We’ve learned from past experience that once you move in, there’s never going to be a time that you DON’T live together again… unless you’re no longer together. So is renting a U-Haul tempting fate in some way? Should we leave well enough alone and maintain separate households, even though he goes back to his place roughly once every two weeks?
When Preppy and I started dating, I came to the realization that I had spent two years being very careful approaching relationships, because I didn’t want to be hurt again. This policy had unfortunately led to a series of men who felt that I was always holding something back, keeping them at a safe distance. I had to learn the difficult lesson that a life lived without risk tends to be a life without much joy.
So we’re taking the risk.
“Okay, gentlemen, we’re at fourteen thousand feet, let’s go!”
The guy at the front of the plane gestures to Preppy and me, and we are shoved forward by the men seated behind us.
“Baby, I love you, this is the best present ever!” says Preppy. I don’t have time to respond, however.
Because my boyfriend just jumped out of the fucking plane.
If you ever want to know how you really feel about someone, I encourage you to experience the sight of their body falling towards Earth at 140 miles per hour. There’s no time to think, just react. We’ve already established that whatever adventures lie ahead will be experienced together. So I fall out after him, into the open sky, an odd cocktail of terror and exhilaration overwhelming me as I burst through clouds and the cities below come into view. Then the chute opens, I snap back up, and I’m fine. Delighted, actually. I float along, enjoying cool breeze on my face, another fear conquered. It’s a little easier letting go now, safe in the knowledge that someone’s waiting for me when I reach the ground.
