Die Hard with… Love
“In battle or business, whatever the game,
In law or in love, it is ever the same;
In the struggle for power, or the scramble for pelf,
Let this be your motto – Rely on yourself!
For, whether the prize be a ribbon or throne,
The victor is he who can go it alone!”
– John Godfrey Saxe
That motto was one which I kind of lived by until I met my partner.
In my relationship with my partner, which has stood the tests of endurance that are a part of all relationships, I’m the narcissist. The insensitive A-hole who needs to take a course in empathy. The one who behaves like a stereotypical man.
I’m not a man. My partner is, and he is very much of a man.
But I am the stereotypical man.
I’ll brood over something which is bothering me, rather than communicate my feelings and thoughts about it. I don’t want to talk about it, not yet anyway, not until I’ve thought things through for myself, not until I actually want someone else’s input, and not at length. Talk to me when I don’t want to talk… and I’ll just sit there listening, maybe pretending to listen because you need me to but not really listening.
I forget birthdays, anniversaries, and other red letter days, and when I do happen to remember them I am very pleased with myself for doing so – result! – and I buy a bouquet of flowers at the gas station, hoping it’ll do, then pretend I traveled to whatever exotic location these flowers grow and handpicked them myself especially for my loved one to celebrate this momentous occasion which I was planning for all year. If my gas station flowers are seen for what they are – that I remembered something important at the last minute… I get rather offended that my gesture, and total recall even if it was at the last minute, isn’t appreciated for what it isn’t rather than what it is.
It is what it is, but that’s something, isn’t it?
If I cook dinner, I’m a five-star chef and make one hell of a mess. If I do the dishes… I expect applause. If I vacuum the house… and dust… I deserve an award, especially for the dusting because that really is a waste of time, seconds later it’s like no dusting ever occurred so what’s the point?
I’ll pace like a pissed off bull who can’t get at the person waving a red rag if he keeps me waiting when we’re supposed to go out… but then I’ll be late for an appointment, or to catch a plane, train or… other thingamajiggy which waits for no man or woman.
I burp and fart unashamedly, out loud and proud of the noises my body makes. If my farts are smelly, I’ll sniff them and sometimes (not always because… sulfur!) enjoy the scent of me.
Same applies to when I sniff my underarms to decide if I need to use deodorant or maybe even have a bath.
I stick my hand down my pants and scratch if I have an itch and even if I don’t. I get quite itchy because I don’t do female grooming the way we’re told we’re supposed to do it. What a lifetime of faff that is, talk about endurance! Hair likes to grow until it doesn’t, and it does not like being told what it can and cannot do. I get even itchier when I do the female grooming thing. Damned to itch if you don’t and damned if you do!
And I suffer from cold hands, so… this is a way to warm them rather pleasantly!
I also have hairy nipples, which make my itty bitty titties sometimes look like a wookiee’s. Apparently the ladies of the days of yore used to use walnut shells to deal with this rather embarrassing issue… glad I wasn’t a lady in the days of yore! Effing ouch! And how exactly… nah! I don’t want to know no matter how curious I can be at times to know stuff.
I swear like a sailor from an uncensored foreign pirate film which may have erotic content… this post has been edited as best as I can manage. See, I can be sensitive and do that empathy thing!
Okay… I’m not that bad, but sometimes I think I am, sometimes that’s how I see myself particularly in this relationship.
If any of what I’ve said up to now has made you uncomfortable, made you squirm in some way… imagine what it is like to live with me. Saying and doing this kind of thing… that’s me!
My partner doesn’t see me that way. He’s my die hard lover, because as awful as I sometimes think I may be… he seems to view all my awfulness as a part of what makes me so loveable to him. His attitude towards me… has helped me have a better attitude towards myself. His relationship with me has helped me to have a better relationship with myself which has rippled into our relationship with each other.
All those things which I think make me so awkward for others to stomach and be around, he seems to think they’re awesome, hilarious, lovely… and even sexy. So… there… you have it!
What makes our relationship endure?
I don’t know… I don’t question it and neither does he, as far as I know.
What makes anything endure?
Some things just do.
“We are all a little weird and life is a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love.” – Dr. Seuss