soopastryheart

It’s fair to say that you change a bit when in a relationship. You’d be naïve to think that you remain exactly the same person as you were before. I’m not saying you get an entirely new identity, just that you realize who you were wasn’t as set in stone as you originally thought, and that you are much more pliable than you wanted to be.

Prior to meeting my Boyfriend and moving in together, my life consisted of scenarios that many single people (without roommates) will recognize: a meagerly stocked fridge, laundry that goes unfolded for weeks (on an ever growing mound on your couch), and idiosyncratic beauty routines that you would rather prefer nobody ever see (ladies, you know what I’m talking about). When you start sharing your life with someone though, things change: bimonthly Costco trips make it impossible for your freezer to ever have room, a large washer/dryer becomes a prerequisite in finding a place, and you always have to be on alert for surprise bathroom intrusions.

And if you’ve been on your own for long enough, having another human being living with you can really test your patience sometimes. Especially if your significant other has an apparent aversion to throwing away candy wrappers and Q-tips, no matter how close the trashcan is to him, or if he can’t keep pistachio shells out of the shag rug to save his life. Though it’s often tumultuous at first, you learn to become more patient, more tolerable, and more accepting of the fact that there are just quirks you have to get used to, and continue to remind yourself that he too is dealing with your annoying oddities. You let the small things slide. You ease up. You learn to stop complaining about the toilet seat (you can just as easily put that down as he can put it up).

Living with your significant other can reap great, albeit, simple rewards too: you always have someone to yell “YO! I’M OUT OF TOILET PAPER IN HERE!” And before you know it, you’ve found your groove together, one where you spend nights watching American Ninja Warrior, go out on 9pm frozen yogurt runs, and share your chores more or less, evenly. Even when you realize that your life has now become unbelievably domestic, you understand that that’s not such a horrible thing, that there’s comfort in the fact that your feet never have to remain cold in bed ever again. And if your boyfriend also happens to be incredibly old fashioned and chivalrous, you never find yourself lifting the heavy shit ever. You never have to worry about your lackluster driving skills, because he’s always behind the wheel. You realize that your mom was wrong in that you don’t actually have to learn how to cook if your dude does it better than you can.

And soon, that single life you lived for so long becomes nothing but a distant memory. You find it harder and harder to remember a time when you used to do things on your own, for your own.

For this past year or so, Boyfriend has had to travel quite a bit for work, mostly trips to Florida where his partners are located. His Florida visits are never more than a week long, which you would think isn’t too bad, but when you’ve gotten as comfortable (coughlazycough) as I have, that week can feel like the most boring seven days to ever experience.

His most recent trip required a redeye flight, which meant I had to crawl out of bed an hour of the day I rarely see. When I returned home, I crawled back in bed for a couple more hours and spent the rest of my day essentially acting like a total asshole. I walked around in my underwear (although being pantsless at home is the norm for us) and took multiple naps (on the couch, on the floor). I half-watched some shows on Hulu while online window shopping, and ate cereal out of the box like a neanderthal. I tried to read but ended up taking another nap instead. I played an inane amount Candy Crush on my phone. Besides a three-sentence exchange with my sister via text, I didn’t interact with a single person. In fact, I think the only time I actually used my voice was to scream at Nick Cannon on TV, “NO, AMERICA, YOU DO NOT HAVE TALENT.” Before his trip, we had stocked our fridge with groceries, but I felt so unmotivated to cook anything, which resulted in me having a can of ginger ale and a package of dried seaweed for dinner.

At some point in the night, between my first and second Haagen-Dazs bar, I caught a reflection of my sorry ass in the window, and I tried to figure out how I managed to feed and take care of myself before I became a we. What did I use to do on all those nights I spent alone? Didn’t I read? Write? Do anything without turning into a pathetic sloth?

It wasn’t that I had become incapable, but I had become unwilling to take care of myself. I had let Beyoncé down.

Feeling truly disgusted with my state of being, I got up and started cleaning. I washed all the dishes and put away the open boxes of food I had left out throughout the day. I picked up the pants that I had taken off at the entryway when I had come in, which were coiled down so perfectly that you could see carpet through the leg holes. I wiped down countertops, watered the plants, took a shower, and broke down boxes for recycling, all at 2am.

The next morning, I got up particularly early, made myself tea and eggs for breakfast, and sat down at the desk, not the couch, with my computer. I wrapped up some edits for work by the late afternoon, and met with a friend and her dog for a walk. I actually chopped some shit and made dinner. Instead of spending the rest of the night flipping channels, I started and finished an entire book.

Aside from that first day, I actively spent each day forcing myself to do something productive, even if it meant walking to FedEx to drop off a package. As ridiculous as it sounds, I forced myself to remember that I was a perfectly capable human being. I did not cease being one simply because Boyfriend was not there, and his absence did not mean my life had to come to a stand still.

It’s actually quite embarrassing to admit morphing into a total sack of crap simply because I forgot what it was to be alone. It’s just so easy to fall into the routine of togetherness, because you get comfortable. Most of the time, you don’t even realize that it has has happened, because if you had, you wouldn’t have allowed yourself to slack so willingly. And there’s nothing wrong with feeling like you’re part of something – the opposite in fact. But finding yourself with someone else doesn’t mean you have to lose everything you used to be. Having a crutch is nice when it’s necessary, but not if it’s because you don’t want to walk on your own two feet. And just because you don’t want to carry your slack, doesn’t mean someone else has to. It’s unfair, lazy, and frankly, a shitty thing to expect.

Being independent is not a quality exclusive to single folk. You can’t wait for someone to help figure out who you are (that’s called brainwashing), even though it’s more convenient to do so. Your identity is something only you can make happen: you ultimately decide how you want to turn out. You can’t let being in a relationship be the only marker of your personality. Ciphering out who you are is a lifelong battle in which you can never win, but in which you’ll never lose either, as long as you continue to try. We change with the ebbs and flows of life, but at the end of the day, you have to be someone that you can be happy with, not ashamed of.

Being in love is pretty fucking awesome, but that person deserves to have the best of you, not a half-assed version. Because mon chéri, if you don’t love yourself, how can you expect anyone else to?

When your life is in molasses, it’s not the viscosity that keeps you struggling. It’s the emotional strain of knowing you’re stuck that takes its toll. The killer about sinking slowly is that you don’t realize it until you’re in waist deep. At that point, it’s so easy to wallow in your predicament and misfortunes than to fight your way out of it. Perhaps if I acknowledged the situation when I first stepped in it, it would have been easier to get myself out. But one thing I’ve realized when it comes to internal battles, it doesn’t become one until things are grave and stark and utterly hopeless.

If this blog acts as evidence, my writing as of late has been moving at a glacial pace. Well, that’s misleading because that would suggest that it’s moving at all, which it is most certainly not. There was a point in my life where the words flew at a speed too fast for my fingers to type, a time when I battled my eyes to stay open to get all the ideas out, a time when sleep was public enemy number one, erasing the stories in my head with every REM cycle. That seems like a lifetime ago now. These days, it’s no small victory if I bother to open up Word at all. Without exaggeration, it seems like a huge accomplishment if I manage to write anything more than a half a page, and a monumental success if I end up keeping it.

I used to think my version of hell meant having so many stories to tell, but not having the facility or means to tell them. Now I understand that hell means not having a story to tell at all. And do you know what’s more horrible than a writer who can’t write? I’ll let you know if I ever find an answer.

I spend half my days trying to write and the other half condemning myself for not being able to. I can’t express how infuriating it is when the writing simply DOES. NOT. HAPPEN. Or when your fingertips just hover over the keys but refuse to move. I’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time staring at the monitor, earnestly and audibly pleading, “PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE WRITE SOMETHING.” But there is no response. The words don’t just appear out of random inspiration. We writers aren’t a vault that can spit out eloquence on demand (at least, this writer isn’t). Some days I feel like I’m going slowly insane, and that eventually I’ll just be the crazy lady yelling at a computer that’s not even turned on.

The thing about focusing so much and so hard on the fact that you’re not writing is that inevitably it becomes the only thing you can focus on. When you’re questioning yourself and your abilities on a persistent basis, that shit will shake you at your core. And when you’re your one and only critic and she tells you that everything you do sucks, eventually you get so discouraged that the ideas just stop. Your brain stops churning out plotlines and characters and longwinded soliloquies. You stop thinking about how a storyline will develop or how the theme will centralize. You convince yourself that it’s pointless to try at all. It’s a vicious and abusive cycle that I’m in right now, and I don’t know how to walk away from it. I’ve become a pretty miserable person these past few months because I’ve essentially stopped being the only person I knew how to be, and stopped doing the only thing I knew how to do. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this lost before.

The only thing that keeps me from spending my days crying in bed (though I’ve done this too) is the fact that I’m surrounded by wonderful human beings who diligently combat and contradict the words of despair that my brain throws out. Sometimes I wonder if I’m that contestant on American Idol who is reassured time and time again by her family that yes, she has talent, and yes, she’s a shoo-in, and yes she’s the next Kelly Clarkson, but is in fact, tone-deaf. But I know I’m not her, because I believe in the opinions and input of the people around me, and I know they would never blindly encourage me and set me up for inevitable disappointment. And I know I’m not her because deep, deep, deep down inside, I haven’t lost the girl who used to believe she was going do big things with her words. Deep down, I know I still think I’m the shit.

The problem, I’ve finally identified, is that I have got to stop thinking that everything I write is going to win me a Pulitzer. I’ve got to be okay with the fact that more often times than not, I’m going to write things that are downright dreadful. I’ve got to be okay with writing a thousand drafts and never be in love with any of it. I’m going to write things that are going to be laughably bad. I’m going to write things that will never be seen by another pair of eyes that aren’t my own. I’m going to write things that are going to make me question why I chose this path in life.

I also need to understand that once in awhile, I’m going to write something that really strikes an accord. One day, as long as I keep trying, I’m going to write something that people are going to want to share with others. One day, as long as I keep trying, my writing might have the same effect on someone as my favorite authors do to me. One day, as long as I keep trying, I’m going to hold in my hands, a copy of a book filled with words that I have managed to put together.

But until then, I just need to keep writing. Even if it’s wholly bad. Even if it’s chockfull of grammatical errors and clichés and broken concepts. I think the problem with my writing is that, I thought if I waited around, waited to be hit with a sudden jolt of inspiration, a Eureka moment, then I’d be able to spit out some brilliant piece of literature and everything would be perfect. I should know by now that it simply does not work that way.

It’s time to tell the pessimist in me to shut the fuck up, one keystroke at a time.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard my parents (in addition to every other adult I’ve come across) tell me that time goes by too fast. When you’re young, it always seems like you’re waiting for all the milestones in your life to happen, so “real life” could start. You don’t quite grasp the urgency of time because as far as you’re concerned. you have your whole life ahead of you. As you get older however, your parents’ lamentations start to really resonate, as you find yourself praying harder and more frequently for time to slow down just so you can have a chance to catch up with it.

Like this annual round up (you can see last year’s here). You can count on me to wait for the last day of January to get around to finally posting this.

10. Reasons why I haven’t been posting much lately can be accurately summed up by these five folders on my desktop:

9. Obsessively. Sometimes, it’s the best way to live.

8. Go away, Lindsay Lohan.

7. When I was into them, boybands looked like this:

Now they look like this:

6. You can always love more than you think you can.

5. Sometimes you spend your days and weeks staring at a blank sheet with nothing but the blinking cursor taunting you. Sometimes you spend days where you don’t bother opening Word at all. Sometimes you stop finishing books and instead use them as coasters, collecting coffee rings. Sometimes you spend entire days browsing stupid things on the internet while simultaneously hating the shit out of yourself for doing so. Sometimes you lie awake with unshakeable regret and self doubt that maybe you should have gone to med school and that maybe you have made a huge mistake. That’s okay. It’s okay to have those days, or weeks. All of it is okay as long as you remember to come back. Back to writing. Back to yourself.

4. Please don’t look to celebrities for matters regarding your child’s health/medical decisions. Look at the science. Vaccinate your goddamn kids. Don’t be a shitty parent.

3. Remember the golden rule: Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.

2. Shame is the heart’s way of telling you that you can always be a better person.

1. Move on.

Sometimes it’s easiest to forget the most obvious and important things. Our brains can handle only so much life at once, you know? That’s why I’m so grateful for auto-pay, iCal notifications, and those little oil change stickers on the corner of my windshield. Sometimes, I’ll glance at an email on my phone, making a mental note to reply at a later time when a keyboard is under my fingertips. Naturally, I’ll completely forget until a week later when I realize I’ve been that asshole who left you hanging.

I’ve been getting better at those emails though, by simply retagging them as unread. I also keep a notepad out in the open on the kitchen counter, assuring that I create a list of things I need for the next grocery run, so I don’t come back from a trip with four bags of Milanos and not much else. Boyfriend and I realized we had a reoccurring habit of forgetting what we had in our pantry/fridge, which resulted in either throwing away a ton of expired foods or stocking up like a bomb shelter. We remedied this by making sure we rotated things from our cabinets and fridge compartments on a weekly basis. Not only do we save money this way, but we alleviate our guilt too.

Still though, no matter how many sticky notes and alarms I set for myself, there are things that I let slip because they seem far too ridiculous to create a reminder for. Things like, “lunges around the living room” or “drink more water” or “YOUR BLOG, ASSHOLE.”

But by far the worst things I forget pertain to those who deserve it the least. We’re self- absorbent creatures by default, and it’s easy to get caught up in your dilemmas. I’ve always been super close to my parents, but that doesn’t mean I necessarily share everything with them – they don’t need to hear about my crippling insecurities when it comes to my writing, or the half dozen anxiety attacks I’ve had in this past year. I know that by withholding these things, I’m ultimately saving them from the stress and panic I know they’ll endure. So sometimes, when they call and I’m in the middle of one of my pity parties, I’ll ignore it, telling myself that I’ll call them back when I’m in a better state. I’m ashamed to say that sometimes, these soirees become overnighters or weekend getaways, which means that my parents’ calls often go ignored for days at a time (to my defense, we have never gone more than three days without talking, so two days of dodging calls will raise flags).

While I try to convince myself that I do these things out of consideration, I can’t help but imagine the disappointment and frustration my parents must feel when they are greeted by my voicemail five times in a row. My parents know me far too well, so I suspect that they understand the reasons behind my absence from the phone. But because they are parents, they continue to reach out, hoping that they can help in any way.

And sometimes, I admittedly ignore their calls because I’ll selfishly feel inconvenienced by all their concern. Shamefully, it takes a solemn voicemail from my dad, who will, without lecture or disappointment in his tone, to remind me to return my mom’s phone calls “when I can” because she just wants to hear from me.

If there were an app that would remind me not to be an asshole to the only two people who never deserve it, I would be all on that.  But unfortunately, there’s no tool that can prompt you to be a better person. As ridiculous as it sounds, you have to stop yourself from categorizing phone calls from parents as another email to respond to, or an item to check off your to-do list. You have to take a step back to realize that, despite your busiest schedules and the most hectic of days, you can’t prioritize people. A five or ten minute phone call may seem like the most miniscule of tasks, but maybe you should stop looking it as one completely. Because what may seem like mindless chatter to you can feel like your parents’ only portal to the child they’ve let off to the world.

They just want to be included. Without seeking permission. Without feeling like a nuisance. Parents never become obsolete. They never stop doing their job simply because you’re no longer under their roof. They never love you any less with age. They never stop missing you, whether you live 3,000 miles away or across town. They want to know that no matter how independent you’ve become, you still need them from time to time, and you’re still thinking of them.

Because I am. I think of them often and much. But I still have to be reminded to answer when they call.

Call your parents. They’d love to hear from you.

There are a few dozen markers a couple goes through in the span of a relationship: the first fight, the first I love you muttered (or shouted), the first introduction to the parents. But one milestone that seems to go most without recognition is one that all couples inevitably pass (pun intended): the first fart.

I understand this isn’t the most poignant of subjects, but let’s face it: I’m not a shining beacon of ladylike demeanor. But it’s a subject that often remains shy in conversation, simply because some prude (my mom? Queen Elizabeth? Socrates?), way back when, decided it wasn’t appropriate dinner talk material. But a fart is a fart and it is never delicate in nature, whether by smell or sound. Why tiptoe around in sensitivity when the fart itself never gives us that courtesy?

This seemingly innocent, often accidental deed induces all levels of embarrassment or humor, depending on the environment and audience. When we are in the safety of solitude, we don’t flinch, we don’t furrow our brows, we don’t twitch our noses in disdain. When we’re alone, we’re not afraid about the scent or decibel, even if it sounds like you’re ripping leather with your bare hands. Maybe you’re a side-tilter, maybe you’re not. Whatever, it’s your prerogative.

There are some great places, outside the proximity of you, where you don’t have to censor your gas. Airplanes? 35,000 feet in the sky is pretty much a fart haven, where you never have to worry about judgment or shame. Around babies/toddlers? They haven’t grasped the concept yet and can also be easy scapegoats (dogs as well).

Because we are a civilized people, we know when our buttholes must remain clenched. Like at the board meeting. At an interview. At church. At a fancy restaurant. At an un-fancy restaurant. In line at the grocery store. In line for anything, especially if indoors. Elevators (it’s generally very rude if you slip one in a space that gives people no chance of escape). If you ever find yourself asking whether you’re in the right place for a fart, just remember this simple rule: when in doubt, hold your butt sprout.

You see, when you decide to share your gas with others, an odd thing happens. You are immediately met with disgust (and even fury), shunned, and deemed barbaric. Suddenly, the recipients become incomprehensibly hypocritical, as if they are one of those magical human beings whose farts don’t ever smell. It’s impossible to truly understand the social psychology of a public fart, but we all overwhelmingly accept that it is an unwritten law, and we try to abide by it.

But sometimes our gas is beyond our control. Sometimes we are confronted by rebel farts that appear from nowhere and cause mayhem and humiliation in their wake. I may or may not let out silent puffers in bed, and when the Boyfriend asks in his half-asleep state what the smell is, I may or may not telll him he let one out in his slumber. That may or may not have happened a half-dozen times or so. I’ve farted in a public (and packed) bathroom at Costco. I’ve farted in yoga class. It happens, despite your best intentions. And you’re just left disgraced, wondering how your body could betray you so.

And that’s what happened the first time I farted in front of the Boyfriend. He had broken the barrier early, and had no problem ripping ass in front of me. Me, on the other hand, had grown up watching my mother holding it around my dad, despite 30 years of marriage. My mom was especially prim and proper before getting married, and though we don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things, her farting etiquette was something that stuck with me. So with Boyfriend, whenever I felt that recognizable discomfort in my lower abdomen, I’d excuse myself out of the room, plop my ass down in the corner of my closet, let it out sloooowly, and then rejoin him when the evidence had dissipated. In retrospect, I admit that this was silly and extravagant, but I wasn’t going to not do it.

But this charade couldn’t last forever, and on one fateful day, it came to an abrupt end. Boyfriend and I were both on our respective laptops in my living room, with him on the couch and me on the floor. I must have been really focused on what I was doing, because before I knew it, a blurt, something resembling a short note on a French horn, came out from under me. Even after it happened, it took a couple of seconds to realize what I had done. I looked up to the Boyfriend to see if the sound had miraculously escaped his ears, if I had been somehow saved.

Nope.

He was staring at me, his eyes agape and mouth growing into a crooked oval. He bolted upright and then yelled, “DID YOU JUST FART?” A clearly rhetorical question that only made my humiliation worse. And though I knew it was absurd to try, I began to vehemently deny his accusation, which only turned him into a giddy leprechaun, laughing and jumping around like a moron, pointing his finger at me and yelling, “YOU FARTED! YOU FARTED!”

Luckily, I was spared in a sense, as it was only deadly by ears and not the nose. But Boyfriend would later describe and reenact the face I had allegedly made when it happened, one that he described as one of “sheer horror.” It’s a story we now retell with zest and little embarrassment, as now I can just shrug my shoulders at something so ordinary.

Even after I broke the fart barrier, I continued to be reluctant to fart around him, simply from habit. He, on the other hand, makes it his personal pastime to trap me, whether by pinning me down, or locking all the windows and doors to the car, and letting the fart bombs go off (some men just want to watch the world burn). And when I’m not dry gagging, we’ll make nonchalant comments, such as, “why does it sound like that?” or “you had sausage, didn’t you?”

And so, much like that first fight or the first night spent together, the first fart reveals so much about the two of you, as individuals and as a unit. Though mine was initiated by accident, I suspect that it would have been a matter of time before I got there naturally and on my own concord. The first fart has to happen organically, never forced or urged (that’s where sharting happens, folks). It often happens autonomously, as your instincts take hold and acknowledges that a certain level of trust has been established. This is what I call The Fart Principle.

And as ridiculous as it may sound to use something as uncouth as farting as a metaphor in a relationship, you can’t really deny that it works. Farting is an exceptionally private act, and for most, it takes a certain level of camaraderie and trust for it to be yielded with others (except among dudes, cause you guys are disgusting). In a relationship, especially if you are a female, farting represents vulnerability, where you allow yourself to appear imperfect, much like the first time you allowed him to see you sans makeup, or pushup bra. We don’t think that you don’t think we fart. It just takes us awhile to show you that we do, and that we’re comfortable with you enough where we know we won’t die of embarrassment or shame. We acknowledge that it’s unnecessary that we feel the need to censor ourselves for as long as we do, but like many other things you males deem irrational about us, it just happens, and we don’t have a reasonable excuse for it either.

We spend so much time on ourselves – more specifically, how we appear to others. We cultivate a line that can only be passed by a select few, because the other side is everything that was meant to be kept private and exclusive. And it takes a certain level of comfort and a specific strain of trust – and not the kind you share with your friends (because no matter what, there are friends you just don’t fart around) for you to accept admission to your other side.

Or maybe not. Maybe for you it’s not about trust, just gas. In which case, whatever, let your freak ass fly.