"Sweet, sweet fantasy baby,
When I close my eyes
You come and you take me.
So deep in my daydreams,
but it's just a sweet, sweet fantasy baby."
--Mariah Carey, "Fantasy."
Not that I think I have any followers of this blog, but if you've read more than an entry or two, you have noticed that I start each post with song lyrics. Music is a huge part of my life (not just Dave Matthews Band, either), and certain songs take me back to very precise moments in my memory. For example, I remember the very first time my sister and I heard Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" driving home from school one afternoon. We were (of course) listening to X96 Modern Rock on the radio. We were both so taken by the song that Emily pulled the car over to the side of the road (and we can both confirm that it was on Sunnyside Drive, somewhere south of the intersection at Foothill Boulevard) so that we could just... listen.
This Mariah Carey song takes me to a very particular place, as well: the dance floor at Flick's Bar in DC, circa spring 1996. During the period of time I often refer to as "the drunk year," I hung out with a group of girls (The Angel, The Devil, The Lesbian, and The Baby... I was "The Instigator") and we went out and danced and drank a lot. This song was super popular in bars at the time, and if it was playing, we were dancing and bumping up against any number of GW baseball players. I broke some hearts that year.
Anyway.
This particular post has been ruminating for a couple of weeks. Sometimes when I post, it takes me a while to figure out the song that will kick off the entry. This one was a no-brainer. :)
So I'm on the phone with my mom the other day, telling her about recent developments in my relationship. Namely, my boyfriend brought up the topic of... wait for it... wait for it...
Cohabitation.
What a wonderful, sweet, amazing thing. I have felt so comfortable, so content, so happy with this person and this relationship, that I have not felt like I needed to PUSH for signs that things were good or "moving in the same direction." As a result, I get the added treat of being on the receiving end of those questions, and not on the I'm-a-nagging-bitch-girlfriend-prodding-my-boyfriend-to-commit end. It is seriously the best feeling ever to RECEIVE the Facebook notification to "please confirm that you are in a relationship with [Name]" and not the other way around.
So he asked when I thought we should move in together, and I was able to temper my response with the excitement of "NOW! LET'S DO IT NOW!" and the reality of logistics and timing. I gave a response that he thought was reasonable, and I indicated that it was of course negotiable (to shorten--ha!). Phew.
Now, he's asked me to look at real estate and fantasize a little. To daydream about where we will live. Together.
And here's the rub:
Hope sucks.
A well-intentioned but poorly-executed comment from a co-worker yesterday set me off on an all-night crying streak that today leaves me with gross puffy eyes and a gigantic headache that 2 liters of water, a 90-minute workout, 4 Advil, and 2 cups of coffee can't touch.
She noticed the flowers on my desk from Valentine's day, and she said:
"You go girl. Never give up hope."
As if all those wonderful things: love, marriage, family... hell, just living together... are things that have possibly passed me by. Because I am the age that I am (see previous post to do the math), there are people who actually believe that it's not going to happen for me.
And while I AM NOT ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE, what I know about myself is that I've walked down that road in my head before. "Abby The Planner" has looked at condos before.
So... I'm telling my mom about how wonderful and sweet it was to have the man I love *ASK* *ME* when I thought we should move in together (before the end of the summer), and suddenly I realized: I've been protecting myself and managing my fear by completely cutting off my capacity to daydream and fantasize.
I don't doodle my first name with my boyfriend's last name. I don't imagine what I will wear on our wedding day. I don't let myself think about the pattern of syllables and consonents of future children's names (thanks mom, for ingraining your silly rules in me!).
I don't let myself fantasize. I don't let myself daydream or hope. I don't let myself think more than a few weeks into the future.
And what's even AWESOMER (please notice the sarcasm) is that my birthday is just a few weeks into the future--that ridiculous birthday where suddenly EVERYTHING RELATED to these wonderful things that I want to daydream about becomes a VERY BIG DEAL.
And I just don't want to go there.
I'm so HAPPY. I feel like I'm in a wonderful relationship with a person who actually loves me the way I am, and with whom I want to daydream about everything.
And he's asking me to daydream.
And I don't want to be afraid.
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Post script:
After discussing the conversation with my coworker with some key people (namely, boyfriend, sister, mother), it became pretty clear that her intentions may not have been good, and that the gigantic smile on my face after the absolutely fabulous Valentine's day made super-special by my wicked-awesome boyfriend might have triggered her jealousy.
I'm willing to accept that possibility, and the fact that I need to get a thicker skin sometimes.
But sometimes it's okay to be a little overly emotional, too.
