single living

M has gone away for work this week. It's not an uncommon occurrence. As a designer, part of his job is to travel to far-flung corners of the world for research. It sounds especially glamorous to those not going--retail exploration in Tokyo, a tour of the world's largest Rolls-Royce collection in France, sampling lager in Brazil. I would trade my left arm to do any one of those things as part of my job, but the reality is that he's typically jet-lagged, towing a client around, and run ragged from morning till night. Yet as the one constantly left at home, I'm hard-pressed to feel sympathy for him.

Though as much I might envy his professional gallivanting, it's not as if I'm sitting at home wondering what to do with myself. I'm afforded the opportunity to return to the single-girl habits I used to hold so near and dear. Which is not to say that I forget my man and hit the town in something one of those awful Kardashian sisters would wear. What I'm actually doing is eating tater tots and baked beans for dinner, relocating all of the books I'm currently reading onto the couch and waking up early to do workout dvds that I wouldn't be caught dead practicing in the presence of someone who I'd like to continue to find me attractive. None of this is particularly noteworthy, but it's what I choose to do when I'm on my own. And every now and then it's just nice not to have to consider anyone else's desires. (I hope this doesn't mean I'll be a bad mother. Surely this is exactly what grannies and summer camp are for, right?)

The other perk of this periodic solitude is the return of the kind of excitement a relationship holds before you merge all of your belongings, wash each others' underpants, and ask questions like, "Do i smell?," while wafting air from your underarms. As i write this, I'm awaiting his call to tell me how his day was in [undisclosed location]. And I'm genuinely excited to hear his voice (unless he phones during Gossip Girl. In which case, he'll have to wait). It's so easy to get comfortable with someone. To forget how much anxiety they provoked in the early days. To assume they'll always be there. His travel renews the intrigue we each possessed when we had no idea what the other was doing every moment of the day. In all likelihood, he probably assumes that I'm just reading and making questionable dinner choices. And he'd be right. But the point is that I COULD be doing anything. I am, once again, a woman of mystery. 

This is my first foray into cohabitation. And I have to say, M is the best (and cleanest) roommate I've ever had. But i've always been a pretty independent lady, one who likes to have her reading material strewn about the living quarters. He can have his fancy, foreign car tours. I'll happily indulge in some of my less charming habits for a week or so. Or, perhaps this is another one of those "things i tell myself" (because in truth, I miss him terribly).

an interesting tale about happiness

I wish I had a better excuse for the recent blog hiatus. Unfortunately, nothing plausible comes to mind. Mostly it's been due to the trepidation of writing the promised report of our road trip, for the exact reason that Alain de Botton recently noted: "It takes genius to make an account of one's last holiday interesting. It is impossible not to be gripping when admitting inadequacies." Perhaps this is why most of my posts are about my personal foibles and things that I can easily find fault with. Am I simply a mediocre writer, with no imagination beyond identifying areas for (mostly others') improvement? I certainly hope that's not the case. 

But what can I say about a week of near bliss, with no obligations, spent with someone who I adore, that won't make you ill from the saccharine sweetness of it all? My first instinct is to point out the less-than-perfect moments, like when I came upon a nest of baby lizards, immediately thought Snakes!, and bolted past M so fast he probably thought I'd been suddenly possessed. Or when we got a tiny bit lost and I kept pointing in the direction we should go, rather than using words, which are ever more effective in navigational co-piloting. Or, on our last night, when we indulged in unnecessarily decadent fare and ended up moaning in bed for hours about our upset stomachs. That's all I've got. Truly. 

During a full week, much of it spent in the car, there were many more laughs and poorly executed raps along with artists like Fannypack (download their song Cameltoe, you're welcome), than there were annoyances or fervid wishes to be anywhere else but here. Literally, it was seven days of sunshine, beaches and birds singing. (sickening, isn't it?) There was a night out in LA with friends, one who is incidentally named Sunshine, that concluded with whiskey-fueled interpretative dances and the unveiling of a pretty impressive sea shell collection. Minus the whiskey, you couldn't get any closer to the idealized joyfulness of Disney lore. And yet, I feel more exposed admitting that than if I'd had to divulge that this trip was our undoing.

Maybe I err on the side of negativity because it's less threatening. Humor has often been labeled a defense mechanism. And let's be honest, angst is inherently more amusing. I mean, what's funny about everything going right? So, maybe De Botton hit the nail on the head. Perhaps only genius can find humor in contentment or weave an interesting tale out of happiness. I'm still working on it.