I was eating a cheeseburger and reading "Life Is Elsewhere" last night at work, when something very strange struck me.
Norman and I have been together for two months...
Now, from context clues, I've determined that Norman doesn't care much about dates and times and countdowns. And really, I don't either. There's no race, there's no particular joy in pinning down a moment in time with a label, and sticking it carefully into a petri dish to watch it grow. I have difficulty imagining Norman and myself as scientists standing over this petri dish, saying things like, "...and it all began on September 8th at 4.33 PM..." Why? Because that's just plain cheesy, and while some cheesiness is good and should be embraced, cheesy is cheesy, and there's no help for that.
...But still... Two months...
Two months after I was born, all my black hair fell out and blonde hair grew in.
Two months after I had chickenpox, the scars had formed where I'd been picking at the itchy-things, and I still have those scars.
Two months into my relationship with Mike, I took long excursions to walk through the desert, looking for a place to hide his body after I choked him to death.
Two months into my relationship with Erich, I took long excursions in the forest to try to find a place to hide my own body after I slit my own throat.
But two months with Norman has nothing to do with any other two months. Norman has nothing to do with thinning hair or scars or past relationships.
Two months with Norman, and I've fallen in love with dozens of his weird little habits. Two months and I feel safe enough with him to cry on his shoulder. Two months and I've stopped waiting for him to leave me for a man. Two months, and I've happily survived it... God damn.
The other night, I burst into tears and told Norman I loved him. I don't think he knew what to make of it, and I guess I can't blame him, because I didn't know what to make of it either. "How come?" he asked, and asked if it had to do with the, er... sexual gratification he'd been granting me... "No," I said, and that was all.
(A good rule of thumb: never say anything you mean during or directly after sex, because you won't be believed...)
I love you because you LET me feel good instead of MAKING me feel good... Because you don't treat me like a vehicle for your ego, or like a science experiment. Because you drink two cups of water every night out of a measuring cup, and it's adorable. Because you hate all my music and love all my movies. Because you're sexy when you're smoking. Because you don't use your IQ to everybody else's disadvantage. Because two months has seemed like no time at all, and I hope we get another two months, at least...
I love you because I do, and there's nothing more to it, just as cheesiness is cheesy, no matter how you look at it. I never expected to be saying this, and it still sort of scares me.
Here's to another two... Here's to not bothering to count...
~Helena*