One day, I had to look in my bag for some tiny thing. I don't remember what. I pulled out my tiny bag of "oral fixes." Basically, it contains makeup, asprin, waterless handcleaner, a sewing kit, cigarette stuff, gum, hard candy....grooming stuff and stuff that goes in my mouth. I pulled out the tiny thing, rezipped the bag, put it back in my pack.
She watched me and said, "you're a good camper."
I blinked, surprised, and replied, "why, yes I am!"
I've been homeless enough, been without a car enough, and lived in too-small, cramped housing enough to know how to store and pack things well. I minimize space, weight, clutter...I know at all times what I'm carrying, and it's almost always everything I need.
I marveled at her fanny pack the other day. I told her I want a complete tour someday. She pulled out her cell phone and checked the battery. It was low. She unzipped a tiny pocket and pulled out a fully-charged battery in a protective case. She switched batteries. She'll recharge the old battery at home.
She has a bicycle that fits in a carrying case/trailer. She had it custom made. It cost a lot. But, if her car ever breaks down, she can pack everything in it in bags, assemble the bicycle and drive away. She has a bike trailer folded under her bed.
I love it! It's my ideal: never depending on a form of transportation she can't operate herself.
My life has become disorganized, after too many emergency moves, when things were tossed in baskets and boxes hurridly, just to make sure they went with me.
I'd already begun organizing, before we became lovers.
But now, I see I'm sharing physical space with another human being. I must accomodate my space to her frequent and hours' long visits. This space isn't conducive to her passage through it. She's taller than I and has knocked her head on the bookshelf in the hall a few times. She must walk sideways through the hall, so as not to knock pictures from the wall with her pack.
Yesterday, I redesigned the bedroom. We can walk in the dark without fear of stubbed toes now. The lint's off the floor. A bedside table holds just about everything we need. I'm clearing a drawer for her stuff.
She likes my place. It looks like a camp, with its tarps and outdoor stoves.
We're negotiating cohabitation. We're looking at our July 3rd date as a target. We're talking about physical arrangements, privacy for each of us, study space, studio space, kitchen space, costs, budgets, meal planning, internet appliances. We know we want a bathtub.
Between the two of us, we're paying more in rent now than we would for a communal house. We're certainly paying more for food than we would by combining incomes. She buys meals from health restaurants and shops frequently. My cooking skills would save her a fortune.
I know I can cohabitate with her. She's easy to adjust to. She makes sense to me. I'm not adapting myself to her needs. I hope she's not, either. We work very well together. We think logically. We trouble shoot and problem solve even small things, to make them operate efficiently.
I've seldom lived with a lover. I've seldom wanted to. But she's more than a lover to me. We're very conscious of the fact that we're building a foundation on which we can base the rest of our individual and collective lives.
We want an efficient practical structure for our collaborative work. Living in the same household facilitates that. It makes things easier: financially, spacially, etc.
I have suggested we seek councilling. Each of us has her History, her Damage. We're fine, so far. We weathered a small storm two nights ago that could have inflated into a full blown battle of neuroses. We talked it through and came out stronger for it. I mean, we touched deep wounds in each other, but didn't finish hateful, resentful or wounded. It strengthened us.
But our personal histories have such specifically-unique damage in them, we do need to take care how we procede. The problem is finding some professional who's knowledgeable about our SPECIFIC histories to handle us WELL. I won't tell you anything about her stuff, but, for example: can we find a coach, a councillor, who is familiar with female genital mutilation? And would this councillor treat my damage with respect, or attribute every character flaw of my life to my not being "normal down there?"
She marvels at how well I've done with so little. I live better than a collegue of ours whose income is much more than mine. She's very enthusiastic about what I can do with little money and without a car.
But I'm cleaning. I'm nesting. My space is not fully functional right now. It's not as efficient and low maintainance as I'd like it to be.
She came back here from work yesterday, delighted at how much easier it is to navigate the bedroom now. I'd worked all day on it. It's pretty, comfortable, delicious and restful now.
I'd like my whole space to reflect that soon.
I mean, a gal shouldn't risk a concussion, just trying to make love to me!
She's good for me. I'm good for her. Together, we're pretty damn awesome.
No comments:
Post a Comment