The Habit of Being

So this is interesting, this falling in love occurrence. This isn't the so-called psychological "Transitional Object" thing, of which I have had about one thousand or so of, throughout my life, if you include all my pets and teddy bears and pillows shaped like Mr. Peanut as well the odd and not-so-odd men, women and children I have invested in throughout my life - - this is the Actual Love Thing, even if I am blogging about it for known and unknown eyes to see. I realize most people don't do this, but some people do, and I am one of them; I'm sure it would make most people nuts, but those are the people who stay well away from me, so they're okay and I'm okay. Sounds like a title of a book. I can tell this isn't purely infatuation because this doesn't always feel magnificent. Infatuation isn't real. That's why it feels so utterly terrific. I've been through infatuation once or twice and my imagination tells me it must feel like I've heard heroin feels - - profoundly, absolutely, fantastically, monumentally WOW. THIS feels good and swell and comfortable and sizzly and yahooey and a bunch of other words I don't intend to write down here. This feels interesting; fascinating, even. and it feels downright wonderful,often. It feels serious and significant. But it doesn't feel entirely blissful.

It just feels great.
But not all the time.
Sometimes it feels more than great.
And sometimes it feels comfortable and even normal.

We met on Match.com. I liked whatever it was he said. I liked his age. I liked his height. I liked his look. And, when I met him, I liked him. I liked his voice. I liked whatever it was he said, although for the life of me, I can't remember what it was. I can't remember what I said, either. He was late, I remember that. But he called. The second time we met I liked him even more - but I still can't remember what either one of us spoke about. He wanted a song, and I sang him a song. My eyes never left his, I remember that. Why do I blush when I write that line? Why do I continue to blush when I write this next line...nor did his eyes ever leave mine? The third time we met was at a birthday party in Seattle for him, his older cousin George.... and a nephew? I think it was a nephew,I'm not sure. I watched him with his thirty year old daughter. I watched him with his cousin, with his nieces, with each person with whom he engaged. I watched him like a hawk. I wore red cowboy boots and a skirt. And a top. He wore...a whitish shirt. And faded jeans. Blue jeans. He didn't eat much. Nor did he drink much. He spoke well and easily. Every once in awhile he touched my waist. Those little light touches men do. I liked that. Clearly, he knew how to be in a social situation with a woman at a party. that's a great skill for a man to have.

I'm not going to go on and on about this. I think I've done well saying this much. Every relationship creates its own habit of being. You laugh, you cry, you eat this, not that, rarely that, never that, you go to these markets, not those, you read these newspapers, invite these people over, hike here, not there, wake up and talk and cuddle for awhile or jump right up and get the day going, tolerate the clutter or don't, brush your teeth three times a day or two, get a pet or not, decide what's to be tolerated and what's not tolerable, decide what's appropriate and what's not, decide whether it's okay to feel badly or whether it's not okay to feel badly and on and on and on. Whether it's okay to give advice(personally, I hate it), decide whether it's okay to go to sleep while you're both watching your beloved's favorite movie. And more. And more-plus-more. By the way, while I'm on the advice thing, I just have to say that the worst piece of advice ever given has got to be "cheer up". And Ol' Man River, He Just Keeps Rollin' Along.