I Love That About Myself

I ran into one of my friends last month and she said that she hadn’t seen any new blog posts. “Are you too happy to blog,” she asked me and we both started laughing. She’s a writer and she gets it… there’s a weird motivation to write when you’re down that’s missing when you’re up.

Yes, I am too happy to write. I’m very happy, in fact.

I’ve got it pretty bad for my lady. I’m swooning so much you’d vomit from the cuteness if you saw us. If we both didn’t have kids, we’d probably be living together by now but kids force things to move at a slower pace. So, instead of shacking up, I live out of my suitcase a couple of days a week. (I’m currently wearing a pair of her undies because I forgot to pack some in my suitcase… being in a lesbian relationship fucking rocks.) We have paintings, books, and trinkets at each other’s homes. I know where to find everything in her kitchen. I have access to her Google Smarthome. She has an Xbox controller at my place. I also get to be alone and not wear pants and live like a slob in my apartment.

I guess I’m enjoying the life of a kept woman and a bachelorette simultaneously.

One of the more interesting things that has come out of my relationship so far is the realization that I’m the artsy fartsy one. When I told my ex-wife that via text she responded “you’ve always been the artsy fartsy one.” I don’t know how I’ve never seen it. I was the one that played in bands. I was the one that started a garden. I was the one that spent a month playing the Native American flute at sunset. I mean, if that didn’t clue me in, what the fuck would?!

I guess I didn’t pay attention to or chose to diminish that part of my personality when I lived as a man because, well, being a “man” who is artistic and a free spirit isn’t valued in American Culture and sure as hell isn’t valued in Evangelical Land. I needed to make money and mow the lawn and nut up or some bullshit like that.

Now, I notice my free spiritness in moments when my boo says “what are you doing” with complete confusion in her voice and on her face as I walk under a tree. I look at her and say “I’m going to lay down and look up at the wind blowing through the leaves” like it’s the most normal goddamn thing in the world. I play Vivaldi at dinner. I suggest a neighborhood flower and herb garden between the road and the sidewalk of her place. I point out pretty plants when we’re walking around downtown Garland.

And I don’t minimize it anymore. I’m an artsy person. And I’m super fartsy thanks to the shit food I eat. And I love that about myself.

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