Skip to main content

The Girl.

Riding the type-2 rollercoaster of fried chicken, regular soda, and a pot of coffee, I am reminded that I am at my best when I shut the fuck up and listen to the world around me.

One of the people who lives where I work has made it a habit of coming downstairs every night, and we'll spend anywhere from fifteen minutes to a good hour talking. Mostly I listen. She's much more interesting than I am.

One of my recent problems was trying to figure out how to best make my relationship work or even make sense. Of all our differences, she admits to having no imagination, while I try to make my living with mine. She has adamantly stated that she will never like video games. Her friends would ask her what she's doing with me even as my friends would ask me what I was doing with her.

Tammey has been married to the same man now for more than ten years. He's about as hardcore gamer as it gets, down to the tabletop D&D stuff even I won't touch, and she doesn't like games all that much. She admits that she's the serious type while he's a lot more laid back. I listen to her talk and all of this sounds glaringly familiar. So I ask her the obvious; How the hell do you make that work?

The more obvious would be why I stick around, but I'll get to that later.
Her answer is simple; compromise.
Straight out, I'm a lot better at that than Sam is, although she's learning. I approach life as an adventurous learning experience while she approaches it like a problem to be solved, so it's easier for me to see her point of view (especially when she's so much smarter than me in so many areas). I don't need logic for a problem to make sense to me, something that frustrates her to no end.

And yet, for almost ten months now (off and on) we've been making it work.

Tammey relayed one of many interesting stories to me tonight; she told me about the time she and her current husband, Brian, went to a country-music concert. Brian is not the biggest fan of country music, but she didn't want to let an extra ticket go to waste. They make it their second (or third) date.

Brian heckles his way through performances by Kenny Chesney (ugh) Lonestar (doable) and gets quiet when Alabama begins performing. Tammey had a painful experience to the song "Angels Among Us" which she relived as they performed the song. Brian gently put his arms around her and cradled her throughout the entire performance. Ten years later, here they are.

This past weekend, Sam is having one of many disagreements with her well-intending but domineering mother (nice lady, but I won't be starting any fan clubs). Sam usually capitulated to her mother on most things but as she strikes out on her own, she's found it easier to stand up to her. While explaining to her as politely as possible why she will not make me meet her grandparents, she said some things that got my attention.

It doesn't matter to her that she dislikes video games while I love them; it's the fact that I am driven to succeed that she respects.

It doesn't matter to her that I suck at small talk; it's the fact that I can carry an intelligent conversation that she loves.

It doesn't matter that her grandparents don't approve of interracial dating; I'm what she wants, and they will have to deal with it.

It was the first time I'd ever had someone go to bat for me like that.
Sam and I are as different as night and day and at the same time we have everything in common.
Begrudgingly, she'll even admit that she's learned to take things a little less seriously since being with me.
I've never been in a relationship where I've had to work so hard. At times it's so frustrating that I want to head home and never look back (and she knows it, we both apologize for being so frustrating).

But every day, it gets a little easier to envision a future with her.

This blog is for Tammey; who has lupus, but it doesn't have her.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

America: A True Story About Hatred and Unity

I wanted fast food tonight. That was all. I found myself at Burger King to pick up my wife's order. I was a few cars deep when I spotted the Confederate flag. I surreptitiously snapped a few photos. This was going to be a very different story. When I pull out of Burger King, it turns out there's more than one. In fact, there are four trucks, each flying variations of the flag. I have to go around the front of them to avoid an accident. They're parked right in the middle of the road. As I drive around them, each person in the vehicle makes it a point to ensure I see them. I do. They see me too. When I get to McDonald's (which is in the same lot), I learn that they're not taking debit cards at the moment. Terrific. I wanted chicken nuggets and instead, I get a run-in with the new Confederacy. So I make my way back to Burger King, again appearing in full view of the trucks. I place my order, get it, pay, and pull out. Then one of the

The Long Road Home

I will end you tonight. No, wait. That's not where the story starts. The story starts two and a half years before this, when Michelle (referred to as Michelle for legal reasons because SATAN was too heavily trademarked) reached out to me by Facebook. She mentioned that we played the same Facebook game and she wanted to say hi. I had never, in fact, even heard of the Facebook game. But I was freshly broken out of a relationship and she was pretty with a good body so I said "Hurr, okay." Conversation ensues. She tells me we came up in the same place. We did not come up in the same place. We spent one night in San Francisco talking. But I really wanted to sleep with her. So, "Hurr, okay." Fast forward a few months. I've left Missouri for the beautiful Pacific Northwest. I've settled into the ass end of Lynnwood, a suburb of Seattle. The apartment was so bad that the landlord wrote the mold on the wall off as "crayon coloring

Wave Rocketbook Reviewed

I love writing by hand, and I love notebooks. I'll often devote entire budgets to them and when Officemax has one of their twenty-five cent sales, I'll buy them out. I often draft by hand, finding that the scene comes together more purely when it flows from a pen rather than a keyboard. So when DailyDot advertised a durable new type of notebook that you could use over and over again for the cheap price of twenty-five (thirty after shipping) US Dollars? I'm down. The Wave Rocketbook is meant to be elegant in its design and simple in its execution. The instructions come on the bag itself, and only the pen and notebook are included. The pen feels like any other, so you have to be careful not to mix it into your collection or you will end up marking your notebook with the wrong pen (like I did). The ink is erasable, which is a bonus. A place to put the pen would've been nice, but it clips easily, if not securely, into the ringed binding. The paper is thick and