Monday, September 22, 2008
I’m the chaser. It’s strange because at the beginning of our relationship, Chad was the chaser. For months. It was clear to both of us. It was the first time I had ever really been the one who was chased. It was strange. I wasn’t used to not feeling that desperate, have to be with them every moment, feeling. It actually helped me be sure that Chad was the one I wanted to be with. It wasn’t that I couldn’t breathe without him, or that I couldn’t fathom what my life with be like if he didn’t love me back. It was simply that I enjoyed my life more when he was with me. It was a clear headed, very ‘adult, mature’ decision. Not very long after we made things more official, our roles switched. At one point, over a year into our relationship, I brought up how I liked how it used to be at the beginning, when he wanted very little more than to simply be with me, back when I wasn’t just a normal part of his life, when I wasn’t a guarantee. He looked at me bewildered and said, “Seriously? I don’t. I was miserable, always afraid I would loose you. I like this much better.”
There is some love song that I have always pictured as real love. One of the lines says, ‘I wanna take you for granted.’ That really is love, I think, when you’ve been together long enough and are comfortable and secure enough to take each other for granted. Not all the time, obviously, but at times. Otherwise, I’m not sure if either of you truly have faith in the relationship.
Chad went to Texas again with his best friend this past weekend. I am glad to say that I am not co-dependent to the level where I sat home and cried all day. In fact, I had a very good time during the day, seeing friends, hanging out with my brother, and working on some of my art projects, time to simply be Brandon, not Brandon & Chad, or Chandon as our friends call us. However, the nights (still no tears, mind you) were different. His absence was a palpable force and I was sorta miserable. Plus, I have naturally inherited the irrational worry gene from my family. What if they are in a car wreck? What if someone kills them? What if he gets drunk and wanders out in the highway? What if the plane they are on was deemed to be the next tool for Osama?
Chad is really good about calling me every morning when he gets up and texts me periodically throughout the day and to tell me good night and that he will talk to me in the morning, and that he loves me. And, I know he does. I also know, I’m the chaser, and that while he truly loves me, he doesn’t miss me the way I miss him. I talked to someone about this yesterday and he laughingly told me that he and his boyfriend were the exact same, except that I was his boyfriend. My friend said that his boyfriend ‘needs’ him more, but that it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t love him just as much as the needing boyfriend loves him. (This is where writing about gay relationships is harder than straight ones—too many masculine pronouns to keep straight.)
So, am I worried that Chad doesn’t love me? No. Do I think he is unhappy with how things are with us? No, in fact, I think it says just the opposite. Does it mean that I wish he were the chaser right now? Hell, yes. Although, if he were, then I wouldn’t be quite as excited as I am right now. I get to see Chad tonight! If feel like it is Christmas morning and I get to open my presents tonight. I am so thankful that I have been blessed with a man that I miss so much, one that I need so greatly, and one that thrills and excites me just by getting to be in his presence.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
I’ve only had to wait for a lane to open up once. There is always at least one or two of the four lanes open. However, I stopped with surprise when I went in the swimming room of the gym and I was the only one present. I felt my heart start to beat a little faster. I did my best to ignore it. I walked to the edge and jumped into the four feet of frigid water. I immediately shot back up. Not due to the chill, but to the fact that as soon as my closed eyes submerged flashing sharp gnashing teeth assailed me. As soon as I wiped the water from my eyes, I assessed the water around me. All seemed serene.
With heroic effort, I began my first lap. I rotate my laps. Fist breast stroke, then the typical swimmer’s stroke with your arms acting as propellers and you coming up for air every time your right arms comes back around (whatever that is called), then the backstroke. Then repeat. During the breast stroke, I never let my face go under the water as I considered how to attempt the next two laps in the rotation without having my face submerge or turning my back to the depths. I always want to see what’s coming. If I’m going to be slaughtered by insane clowns, burglars, or a Jaws wannabe, I’m not going to do so surprised.
I made it through my first lap, only having to stop and stand up checking the water around me three or four times. For my second lap, I repeated the breast stoke again. I couldn’t force myself to have my head underwater. I tried, but I was immediately plunged in the dark, cold, swirling, infested ocean. I came up gasping, so I figured it wasn’t going to be a success to continue with anything but the safest stroke. By the end of the second lap, I was nearing a panic. I had to stop and stand up at least five times, and I knew I was doing very little in the way of cardio, even though my heart rate was successfully elevated. I decided that before the creature showed up that I should ‘throw in the towel’ and focus on cardio on a safer day. Just as I put my hands on the side of pool to life myself from the watery death trap, an old man walked out into the pool room and slowly lowered himself into the pool.
Wonderfully, everything was a shallow pool again. I finished the rest of my workout in a truly masculine and testosterone filled way. After all, if the demon of my childhood showed up, I figured between me and the old man, I would be harder to catch.
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Monday, September 01, 2008
100% of the following is true. . .
Chad and I went to Woody’s Pizza in Golden today. In the booth next to us was a blond foreign woman, a Latina nanny, and two dark haired little boys. The older around six, the younger around three.
The blond woman had on a blouse free of lettering.
The older boy’s shirt said: “I have Autism. Duh!” By the way the nanny was dragging him around by the top of his arm, it seemed to be a true statement.
The younger boy’s shirt said: “It’s all my brother’s fault”
The nanny’s shirt simply said: “Honest”
I wished I had a shirt that said: “What the fuck?”