I am feeling pretty cozy and relaxed today, with the cold and cloudy weather outside and the glow of the lamps warming the apartment, making the browns in the floor and cabinets reflect a warm caramel color. You can almost smell it— well, it’s probably because I can smell the salted caramel air fresheners we have all over the house to mask the “we-have-two-cats-smell,” but, no matter.
I have NPR on in the background, the smell of another pot of hot coffee brewing in my kitchen. I have on my favorite blue and turquoise lounging sweater underneath my other favorite sweater—my dad’s sweater that was passed down to him from my grandfather, and now to me. It’s been washed and dry-cleaned…so not super gross, I assure you. We still don’t want to turn the heat on and I’d rather be bundled up under a sweater and blankets than have the heat on anyway. I am feeling so incredibly lucky and blessed with my life lately and not just because our electric bill will be oh so much cheaper thanks to the cooler temperatures.
I enjoy being alone (or preferably with G.) just doing things that make me reflect, clear my head and make me happy—like reading, writing and painting. I actually enjoy cleaning the house and picking up, I can’t believe it. I enjoy decorating the apartment. Making it one step closer to feeling completely homey (though, I mean this in the visual sense. It does feel homey knowing G. and I share the space and have a life here). I enjoy hanging out with the cats and talking to them throughout the day and not feeling ashamed. If G. were here, I know he’d do the same things and I would be okay with that. Yes, we openly talk to the cats like they are people, yet, we are so comfortable with each other and our cat-people(ness), we wouldn’t judge the other. I am so thankful to be in such a loving, trusting and comfortable relationship—not comfortable just because we can openly talk to the cats.
It’s not comfortable in that negative sense that so many people associate with that word when used to describe a relationship, i.e., not being romantic anymore, not trying to look sexy and flirt with the other person, not going on dates, etc. It’s comfortable in the sense that I know I can just be completely myself with this person. He has seen me at my worst. Seen me at my best. Seen me with my hair a mess (hey! I rhymed!) Seen me sick. Seen me happy. Seen me sad. Seen me vulnerable. Hell, we’ve even had to pee with the bathroom door open for a week (we’re both pretty big procrastinators) when the bathroom light was broken and we had to use the hallway light. (For the record, we asked politely if the other person would stay in the living room until we finished our business. Sometimes, I think that would be a little too weird for anyone.)
Just knowing the other one is coming home to the same place and will be there with you in the evenings is one of the most comforting and happy feelings in the world. I love knowing that we are sharing our lives together. I may sound completely lame, but one of my favorite things we do is cuddling up in bed some nights and reading books together before we go to sleep. That is intimacy, my friend. Anyone can just jump into the sack together, but it takes someone special to be that open and comfortable, to lay in bed and enjoy each other’s company—being able to read a book and share with one another funny quotes or oddities we find in the books we are reading. Being comfortable in the silence, yet knowing you can talk for hours and still have something to talk about. Knowing that you can share anything and everything with them, the good and bad, the boring and exciting, anything.
Perhaps I’m being so sappy because as I sit here on the sofa, I’m wishing G. were able to be here with me on the weekends, even if we aren’t always in the same room, but just sharing each other’s company. I miss going to brunch, or staying in and cooking brunch for ourselves. I miss sharing household chores and decorating together, instead of each of us doing a little bit alone on our respective days off. It’s kind of depressing, really, to not be able to do the couple-type things together on the weekends and doing household chores that are normally not so enjoyable alone, but made that much better when you’re doing them together—doing laundry, washing dishes, even changing the cat litter. But looking around the apartment, snuggled up in blankets and cats, knowing it’s ours, holding a mixture of both of our belongings and little reminders of our lives together makes it like he’s always here and I’m with him when he’s alone here on his days off. Somehow here in our home, we are always together—physically or not.