It seems almost seasonal, definitely cyclical, to surrender to the pessimistic insistence that there is no future to my romantic relationship beyond our next date, and with tremendous weariness, I sit with loads of self-pity and beautiful despondency piled around me. I sip decaf coffee, chosen so that the bitter on my tongue matches the bitter of my heart, listen to songs of despair and heartache, and resist the urge to put my head in my hands and cry. I try to get my head to a point where I can see myself alone again. When the picture becomes a clear view of a resignedly pained but stoic and independent woman who fills her time with cooking classes, Sierra Club hikes, and public library book clubs, I know that it is time to move on.
The problem this time is that I don't know what moving on means. Moving on could mean cutting the ties of three years and negotiating all aspects of my life as alone as you can be with a seven-year old child and a very high-maintenance dog in tow. But in this case, it also could mean getting over my stubborn idea of what I need, or what all of this should look like, and just accepting that the way things are is the way things are. Moving on could mean accepting that, as I have for the past three years, what is between us is simply what is between us right now. We share no house. We share no kids. We share no money. We share no responsibilities. We share no vision of where we will be in four, twelve, or twenty-two years. It is not assumed in social and familial events that I will be with him, or he with me. Crisis in either household is dealt with alone, details relayed after the fact over a phone call that attempts to cover the space of the six miles that separate where we live. Date nights that allow us to fall asleep and wake up next to each other are few and far between and always require a packed bag with toiletries and clean underwear.
I don't know what moving on means because after three years, things are still good. Despite our lack or time, or maybe because of it, I am as in love now as I was then, actually, even more so. I still laugh at his jokes that often cross a frat-boy line and encourage me to blushingly cross that line as well. Conversations span hours on the sofa, my feet in his lap, or his in mine, covering nothing and everything. When something happens, wonderful or terrible, he is the first person I want to tell. His opinion, his advice, his rational, calm, and wise perspective are still anchors for me when the waters of the rest of my life get too rough. Pictures, music, cards, and even rooms in my house are testament to the fact that after three years, as separate as we have kept parts of our lives, we have blended enough that there are splinters of him that will be around long after we pack up whatever it is that needs to be packed up and handed it all back.
I don't know what moving on means after three years because despite the fact that things are still good, a switch has flipped for me, and it is suddenly not enough. I am heart-breakingly, disastrously tired of being where we are. I am sick of packing a bag, having done it so much, it is rote. I am so unsatisfied now by hearing about his day, or telling him about mine, over the space of six miles that the conversation turns flat most nights, and we hang up the phone before anything of substance is said. And I'm tired of looking four, twelve and twenty-two years down the road and alternately picturing him there, and picturing myself without him.
I don't know what moving on means because I will be more alone without him than I am now. And sometimes that seems okay. And sometimes, it doesn't. He is the best man I have ever known, and giving him up means giving up that. I know, with frightening certainty, that there is no one out there that will fit me as well as he does. Yet, right now, in this regard, we are mismatched.
With any situation, if I could pry back the cover of the future and see where all of this ends up, it would be so much easier to decide which road is the right one. And then I could get up off of this chair, chuck the bitter coffee down the drain, shut off the whiny "whoa is me" music, and do something that resembles productivity today. But, even though it's April, and the day before Easter, it's gray, cold, and snowy outside. And as harshly as it would be judged by an outsider, the music is slow-head-bobbingly comforting. And I really don't have much that needs to be done today anyway, house already cleaned, child running around in bliss wreaking havoc with her best friend, work left at work. So I think I'll sit just a little longer, head in hands, music pathetic, and futilely wait for a direction.
