He doesn't care, he says. Over and over he tells me that he just doesn't care if I write about him, or us, or me, or the sky. I've asked him so many times now that he's starting to get that impatient look in his eye that boys sometimes get - like when you ask them what they want for dinner 8,000 times on a Thursday, or if they like the blue dress or the yellow (after you've tried them both on six times).
"I have nothing to hide," he often adds. I believe him.
And there's something terrifying in that for me.
Because this is MY space. I realize the implications in writing about my life here. My boss can read. My parents, my brother, friends, students, and parents of students -- all of those people can easily find their way here. It's a whole different ballgame when you start writing about other people. Because then HIS people can find their way here, too (which is why I never use his real name or something). Easily, they can read about some of my most intimate thoughts about us or him. And you guys - that makes me blush just thinking about it. So maybe I ask him as a buffer. A sort of acknowledgement that he agrees with what I say ... because if he didn't, he'd call me off.
Nothing to hide, he says.
The thing about new relationships is that it's easy to hide things. Ever think about that? It is super easy to hide what you look like when you have the flu, or when you're about to lose your shit because for one week a month, your stunning personality could literally slay dragons, or when just everything is going pear shaped and the only thing you can do is cry, cry, cry because that's the only way to wash away the bad days sometimes. It's ridiculously easy to side-step conversations about your past and ensure that no one in your family ever speaks of the boyfriend in seventh grade that casually mentioned getting married at dinner one night (and every other embarrassing story ever), or scary truths that hide in the cracks of the wall around your heart, your head, or just you. It's easy to hide the messy bun mornings, Sundays when you don't change out of pajamas, or even how you kind of (sometimes) drink out of the orange juice jug.
It'd be so easy to do, you know?
It's just not better.
The Boyfriend feeds me so much straight honesty that sometimes my head spins. There's something freeing there, though. Something wide open. Something about being able to talk about the hard things; something peaceful in knowing there's someone in your life that's not going to bullshit you or lie to appease you. Something real in asking a hard question and getting a truth in response every single time. And he doesn't hesitate in answering. Ever.
And damn it's scary sometimes.
Living in the wide open with someone leaves you ... Exposed. Bare. Prone.
Those aren't really words a girl like me loves to rest in.
But ... in every question and in every answer. Every single time he actually follows through. And every single time he raises his eyebrow when I'm twosecondsaway from slaying all of the dragons. Every single time he says yes. Or every single time he cheers on this writing thing I've got going on. And every single mother loving time he sheds some blessed sunshine on a missing perspective.
The pathway away from the charred, burned down Before gets a little less rocky.
Eventually, The Boyfraaaan is going to find out that I drink out of the orange juice container (and I guess that means he's finding out right now), but even scarier than that is that he still likes me anyway.
I guess what I'm saying here is that the big ol' wide open is a terrifying place to be. It's tough to be on guard from all sides. Tough to fend off an attack that's coming. Tough to hunker down through a storm.
But in the wide open?
In the place with "nothing to hide"?
Things are so much ... more.
. About Moi .
I love, love, love flannel sheets and I am really passionate about lists on post it notes and most of the time I'm sad that no one else is as excited as I am about Diet Mountain Dew. I also adore run-on sentences.
He saw her before he saw
anything else in the room.
- F. Scott Fitzgerald
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