soopastryheart

When the boyfriend and I decided to move in to a larger place together, it took months before we found a place that offered everything we were looking for. Prior, I was living in a place that was 435 square feet (with a walk-in closet, no less), and he was renting a room in a friend’s townhouse. Neither of us had any real furniture (my place came furnished), so the thought of furnishing a place that was a whopping 1350 square feet was needless to say, a bit daunting.

But we were nonetheless excited; this was the first place for both of us to call our own – meaning that everything we brought in would be our choice, our preferences, our reflections and styles.

However, finding furniture wasn’t as easy (or enjoyable) as we had thought it’d be. A part of me secretly had hoped he was the type to leave all the interior design to his girl, but the boyfriend was revealed to be quite the furniture and design enthusiast. We had differences in everything from style, color, and price range (I had no idea couches could cost so damn much).

What I Wanted:

Vintage/Parisian/ Femininity Extreme

What He Wanted:

Mid-century modern/Lime/Rugged classics

After some research, compromise (I agreed I would not let our place become a cottage that Anthropologie’s designed, he dropped his wanting a lime green color scheme), and a generous contribution from my parents, we came to a set that we were both happy with, one that nicely reflects our mid-century modern preferences with our unshakable sense of practicality.

What we agreed on:

Charcoal set from Crate and Barrel, which we got for 15% off during the upholstery sale.

In truth however, we fell in love with a set from Couch Seattle, one that looks remarkably identical to the ones we got, but in the perfect heather gray tweed (it was exactly what we had both envisioned). And though the custom order had similar price range, the minimum 10-12 weeks it would take to complete was too much to bear, as we couldn’t imagine going two months in an empty living room.

How it looks:

What I love most about our place is that when you look around, the individual elements of who we are distinctly clear, like my teacup collection, his bar, right down to the books we have on our shelves (mine: essay anthologies, shitload of fiction, Russian lit, etc. his: biographies, business, nonfiction, poker?). But then there are elements that came together in a collaborative effort, like the DIY chalkboards that Boyfriend graciously built, painted, and hung, a neutral shag rug that I virtually live on, and a giant tray we use in lieu of a proper coffee table. We’ve been especially slow with the art on our walls, because we want them to be thoughtful, not just a mass-produced fixture (in fact, the only one we really have up is a photograph of a deconstructed typewriter, a gift from a friend).

By no means are we complete in our interior design quest (we’re still using file boxes as bedstands in the bedroom), but with the most essential items in place (including a pressure rice cooker, like any respectable Asian household), we’re having fun taking our time to find things we like. We’d rather be patient and find something truly unique to us rather than buy everything off a page in a catalog (though it’s pretty tempting once in awhile). But the important part is that this doesn’t feel like a place for two people to be playing house.

It feels like a home.

I was either super diligent or extremely procrastinate with my studies in college. Regardless of which side of the spectrum I fell, both meant that I would spend a considerable amount of time buried in books and indecipherable notes, until mornings and nights meshed together to form one timeless ombré. I would consume an impressive amount of caffeine (and usually only caffeine) to support these day-to-night study benders, until my lower extremities began to involuntarily dance and I would lose the ability to distinguish whether my fingers were shaking or my eyes were twitching.

And though I knew that my study tactics were less than optimal, I had more all-nighters in college than I really should have. On one midterm stretch, I went two nights and three days without a full night’s rest and realized I was talking to myself out loud in the most public of places (coffee kiosk, restrooms, etc.). By that third day, I was no longer running on fumes, but rather, clutching that empty canister for dear life. I couldn’t remember conversations I had with friends. I’d regularly misplace items (cell phone in fridge, toothbrush in my pen holder, keys in a boot). I’d stare at something (or someone) for twenty minutes before realizing I was doing so. During those days, I wasn’t so much a human being as I was zombie, but the important note was that I made it through; it may have been on my hands on knees, clawing my way out, but I made it to the finish line.

I took those miserable days for granted, days when I could survive on spoonfuls of peanut butter and Red Bull to help me make it through the week, days when personal hygiene took a back seat, days when 48-hour days were the norm. Because these days, it’s an entirely different story.

For reasons that are unclear to me now, I pulled an all-nighter earlier last week. There was no pressing matter to attend, no deadlines to meet, no urgent project that needed finishing. I simply failed to fall asleep, and before I knew it, it was light out and I could see the growing number of commuters on the road. And instead of just going to bed then, I opted to remain awake, thinking that it would affect my sleep cycle the least.

In anticipation, I brewed myself a strong cup of breakfast tea, and tried to keep my brain in constant simulation. When my eyelids began to pucker and droop, I downed a second cup, determined to fight the wave of sleepiness that seemed to be drowning me. Quickly, I started to lose focus of the words I was reading on my computer, until I was convinced what I was looking at was no longer English. I developed a prickling headache around my temples, punishment for not allowing my eyes to close when my body was instructing it to do so. Around 10am, I decided I could no longer fight the good (albeit, pointless) fight, crawled into bed, and didn’t wake until 4 in the afternoon.

I most definitely don’t remember those side effects from sleep depravation just mere years ago.

I don’t really miss those days, when cereal was the meal of choice and sleep was a forfeited luxury, but I do miss how quickly I was able to bounce back when I tortured myself so.

The weight of it all – the weight of growing older no longer feels like a gradual process. Instead, it feels as if one morning, your body finally decided to stand up for itself, telling you to screw off, and that it would no longer tolerate any more abuse. It happened sometime between ages 23-27, and shows no signs of reversal or deceleration.

And it’s not just going to bed at a reasonable hour that’s a sign of aging. So many activities and tasks that seemed second nature before seems like a challenge now. In college, we’d be drinking Thursday nights only to show up to lecture Friday morning still drunk. Now, we’re lucky if we’re not hungover after a particularly rambunctious happy hour (or a beer, if you’re me). I’ve noticed that the dark circles under my eyes are far more reoccurring, that I’ve bought more Tums in this past year than I have all my life, that “powering through” the flu seems like a much heavier defiance than it was once before. I understand the importance of exercise, not just so I can be presentable in a bathing suit, but, well, simply because I don’t want to die just yet.

It’s quite the wake up call, these physical ailments now introducing themselves after having been dormant for so long. It’s your body’s way of breaking the news to you that you aren’t as infallible or invincible as you once thought. I’m not yet concerned of slipping in the shower and busting a hip, osteoporosis, or saggy tits (you gotta have them first). But I am growing more aware of my family’s history of high cholesterol, SPF levels in my daily moisturizer, and recognizing warning signs of spicy foods.

So go and add an extra mile to your morning run! Toss those microwavable corndogs and buy more ground turkey! Drink more water! Enroll in barre! Bikram yoga! Spin! Zumba! Stock up on fish oils and cranberry supplements and add them to your daily repertoire!

Or else.

There’s a double standard when it comes to affection displayed in relationships. When a guy talks about how great his girlfriend is, he is typically met with adoration, praise, and an endless train of oohs and ahhs by spectators. He is regarded a romantic, a kind and gentle soul worthy of a rom-com. When girls do it however, they are immediately deemed subservient, beguiled, disillusioned, or downright pathetic.

So to avoid being labeled the scarlet P, we overcompensate to hide our emotions by acting aggressively and disguising it with a surly demeanor. We try too hard to appear aloof when really, all we want to do is throw confetti in the air and sing out, “Yippie! I found someone who loves me… despite my emotional retardation and baggage!”

This year for Valentine’s, I decided to give that notion not one, but two middle fingers. Why should I be so afraid or nervous to express my love and appreciation for my boyfriend? Let me just appreciate him, dammit.

And why shouldn’t we celebrate the fact that we’re happy? It’s a special thing to have someone in your life who indulges your 1 am taco cravings, is tolerant of your unwashed hair and tendencies to apologize for everything (whether warranted or not), and accepting of your inability to poop when within proximity of another’s ears (no lie, in the early months of dating, I kicked him out of the apartment when duty/doody called).

And it’s really great to have someone to be the buffer between you and your most self-crushing thoughts and insecurities. It’s really great to relieve yourself of the burden of having to carry it alone, and to have someone who will remind you that you’re not crazy… just passionate (and that he digs it… most of the time).

And it’s great to have someone behind you, as well as beside you, as you take a chance with your career, no matter how slow (or idle) it may be. And despite his short fuse, he seems to have the utmost patience when it comes to me figuring my shit out.

“Look, go out there and take a chance. Go do what you want to do, and let me do this for you until you get what you want.” His support (emotionally and financially) has meant the continuation and luxury of pursuing my dreams without the constraint of time and guilt (well, a little bit of guilt). And though he does indeed spoil me plenty with material things, this has meant the most of all.

I feel outrageously lucky to have found him, this wonderful and handsome man who loves and protects me, who has become my biggest advocate and fan. I am thankful that I’ve found someone I can unapologetically be myself around, unshaved legs and all. I am grateful that he accepts me as a whole, as the complete emotional psychopath that I am. A smart man would have caught the clues in the first few weeks and walked away. But a smarter man, such as he, recognized this was something worthwhile and stayed. I’m glad you stayed.

What I’m trying to say is: I appreciate you, Boyfriend. I love you. And I am so glad that that one fateful October night, we both got stupid drunk and made out in the middle of the street.