Love is...

And now for something nauseatingly soppy that I've been meaning to post for a few weeks but have never got around to it.

Love is...

• driving me to work, simply because I was lazy and slept in
• picking me up from work when I’m sick
• cooking me dinner when I’m sick and/or doing exams (and/or procrastinating)
• not saying the words “stop procrastinating”, most of the time
• saying “stop procrastinating”, and braving any potential explosion, when I’m really running behind
• looking after me when I’m sick and coughing up nasty stuff
• telling me I’m beautiful, even when coughing up nasty stuff
• correctly interpreting “no chocolate for me, thanks” as “I shouldn’t have chocolate but I want some anyway, so I’m going to say ‘no’ to keep up appearances”
• buying me chocolate as per above
• saving the strawberry-filled chocolates for me
  
• calming me down when I break machinery that doesn’t belong to me
• attempting to fix machinery that I have broken
• listening to my stoned ramblings
• making me breakfast in bed
• putting up with my moodiness and sullenness
• reading to me

Part three of The Proposal series will be coming soon... promise...

The proposal, part 2

From part 1...

Answers
We arrived back at his place and I slumped petulantly into his bed. While petulant isn’t a good look on me, I don’t think that anyone could deny I don’t do it with the utmost fervour and skill. Janek lay next to me. “What are you thinking?” He asked.

“Where do I start?” I said. My stomach was in knots, my heart was racing and I was feeling not a little anxious. I love Janek, don’t get me wrong, but I was completely taken by surprise and, when it comes down to it, I’m just not ready to hit the aisle and wed anyone at this point in my life. I was also a little pissed off with Janek too, if I’m brutally honest, for not predicting my reaction a little more accurately. Looking back now, fifteen days later, I’ve had a lot of time to think about my reaction and what the possible motives could be… But I’m getting ahead of myself, that’s for another post.

I started trying to explain myself, figuring that after my little tantrum Janek deserved some answers. “I guess you’ve just taken me by surprise. I mean… umm…” At this point words failed me a little. “It’s not that I don’t love you, baby, I just…” I sighed. “I’m not ready to get married.”

That must have hurt to hear. To his eternal credit, he digested this remarkably well. He asked if I wanted to call Dad or Paul or someone, I said that no, I would be ok, I just needed something to relax me and I’d be fine. I went over to my room to grab some stuff and, partly, to give me a chance to SMS Paul and send my father with a death threat (while Janek probably maniacally SMSed Nic with updates). When I got back, much deep and meaningful discussion ensued; I don’t remember what was said exactly (I was, by this time, heavily under the influence), but I remember the outcome. It all ended with me saying:

“Look, Janek: It’s not that I don’t love you, obviously, because I do. And it’s not that I am not committed to you, because I am. So, if the question is ‘will you marry me at some point in the future?’… Then my answer is ‘yes’.”

Suddenly the worries I had pent up in my stomach and various butterfly-producing muscles melted away as I rolled on top of Janek and kissed him.

There’s more. Stay tuned for Part 3, the fallout and the reflection.

The proposal, part 1

I should be studying for my psychology exam, which is scheduled for 9.20am tomorrow morning. In my experience, nothing good ever happens at 9.20am. But I am sitting in bed, watching Home and Away and trying to ward off The Midnight Cat who, despite my protestations, is intent on climbing all over me and pawing at my stomach. I know that she’s just trying to be affectionate, and I do love having her fall asleep on my chest, but she makes it impossible to do anything other than change the channel with the remote control, and she only permits that if the remote is in reach when she chooses to sit down. But anyway, the purpose of this post is not to discuss the mundane…

The Anniversary
Eleven days ago it was our one year anniversary. During the day, I was at home reading papers and writing an essay. John made reservations for dinner at an Italian restaurant in Newtown; I shaved, showered and hoped that I could get through the evening with my winning smile and dashing good looks considering I hadn’t actually bought him a gift. As it happens that was both the most, and the least, of my worries that night.

I knew that he had spent a lot on my gift and, according to a mutual friend, that I’d “never guess what it is” and “never expect it”. This made me nervous. I don’t like surprises, especially when I know about them beforehand…

We arrived at the restaurant, were greeted by the restaurateur and took our seats. After a lovely dinner Janek said “well I have your gift with me...” I cut him off before he could continue: “What!? Huh!? Where!??” “You’ll get it in about twenty seconds,” he said. Immediately I had visions of the waiter coming in with a diamond ring nestled in a canapé. My mind reeled. I said to myself that he wouldn’t, he knows I don’t like rings, he knows that I freak out from this weird finger claustrophobia when I wear them. He took a breath, gulped a little, and continued.

“Well I’m not going to be so self-centred as to say that my gift to you is myself,” he began. In my mind’s increasingly horrified eye, the ring glistened and actually grew larger against the bed of lettuce it was nestled in. He gripped my two hands in his. Though the romance of the situation wasn’t lost on me, I can’t deny I felt a little sick. “So I got you this,” he said, a small goldmark box materialising in his left hand. The phrase “I was speechless” doesn’t begin to cover the moment. He opened the box and a silver ring poked out of the white fluff at me. He took it out of the box and wrestled it onto my ring finger. It was two or three sizes too big for me (which, I found out later, was done on purpose to avoid the finger-claustrophobia).

“I called your Dad today,” he said, “and asked his permission to ask you this…” HOLY FUCK, I thought, and then, oh, it’s ok, he’s only joking. Phew. “Will you marry me?” Thinking it was a joke, I said yes.

(Hint: he wasn’t kidding)

About five minutes later, I realised it wasn’t a joke. Then I panicked and my mind reeled anew: I’m not ready to be married, I’m only 25 you idiot! Fuck! I’ve said yes! How do I go back on that? Huh? HUH?? ‘Oh, actually honey, I was kidding’? Janek, ever the intuitive one, picked up on this. “You’re freaking out aren’t you?” he asked. “How’d you guess?” I snapped.

He took my hand and I melted…

Stay tuned for Part 2.

The wisdom of Dan

I love Dan. Especially when high. He just got here and has tried to put his eye drops in with glasses on. He burst into tears of laughter when I described a cardboard box to him. He has said the following:

Me: Remember how you were saying I always lie on your right when we watch TV? I'm on your right side.
Dan: Does that make me gay?

Dan (to the Midnight Cat): My darling! Do you want to lie down here? Here, why don't you like on my jacket and scarf, not this horrible plastic bag... this way you don't need to hear yourself sleep.

Dan: You know how everyone says "Oh I learn more about you every day? Well baby you know enough about me to know I don't like relinquishing control,especially in regards to gravity.

Winter woes

Reasons I hate winter, in no particular order:

• I drink more coffee than is probably good for me, in a vain attempt to stay warm.
• Sex can be a tad chilly if the room is not adequately heated.
• It gets dark an hour and a half before I finish work, which is downright inconvenient.
• The start of winter heralds the beginning of assessment season (though to be fair, it comes with the start of summer too).
• All the cute Sydney Boys at uni are wearing too many clothes that inconveniently cover up their taut and tanned bodies.
• Similarly, I am forced to bundle into four layers of clothing before setting foot out the door, lest I end up turning a rather unpleasant shade of blue, tempered only slightly by the greeny-yellow shade of snot that drips down my front.
• This sudden jump in clothing usage means more washes and, most infuriatingly, more rewashes (since the original contents of the first-mentioned wash gets soaked on the line during the ravaging downpours we invariably get on days after I've done the washing).
• In turn, my bedroom becomes a labyrinth of shirts, jumpers, towels and jeans as they must dry while being festooned from ropes slung across my ceiling since the line outside is always wet.
• Similarly, the ravaging downpours also occur when I am at uni, the shops, or on the way to work. But only if I am without umbrella. (In short: If there is no washing on the line, or if I have an umbrella, the sky is blue and clear).
• Water from the aforementioned deluges enters into the bathroom, through the window and cornices. Mould ensues.

Reasons I tollerate winter, in no particular order:

• It's much easier to cuddle up in bed without the whole exercise devolving into a sweaty groping match (which are fun, yes, but everything has a time and place).
• I can wear my many scarves.

And so the "nays" have it.