The Boyfriend currently lives, astoundingly, exactly one hundred miles away door-to-door (he has measured. He is a bit of a maths geek. He likes graphs. He is not unlike Rainman.)
What is even more astounding is that far from being a source of friction, sadness or even mild upset, the long-distance arrangement is working quite wonderfully. It is less of a 'I don't care how you get here, just get here if you can' situation and more of a 'Thanks for coming, see you again some time' set-up. Pretty perfect for me.
It became a source of comment at a the latest pow-wow at Nanna's house.
"So then, when do you think The Boyfriend will move down here so you can be together?" Nanna excitedly asked me. Grooooooooan.
"Urm, never?" I offered up, hopefully. Frowns all round. "Three nights a week does me just fine". More frowns. Oh dear.
Sober Auntie informed me that, in her opinion (did I ask for it?) if I was satisfied with only a part-time arrangement then he quite obviously isn't the one for me. It is hard to take advice from a woman whose sole intention for her two boys- both of whom have only a hair and a whisker on my years- is to marry them off so they can live happily ever after amen. "I'm not being funny or anything" she followed it up with. No, you are not funny, I thought. And why is it when somebody is blatantly being "funny" they try to cover their tracks with the phrase, "I'm not being funny"? I can still tell that you are being judgemental, you know.
"Auntie" I began, in my most patient voice, "We tried to be together all of the time, but I couldn't stand the smell of boy in my flat and the fact that we could never find room in the shopping budget for an extra carton of tomato soup, because he doesn't like it. Tomato soup is my favourite." You can give as many complex reasons as you like as to why cohabitation often doesn't work out... more often than not though, it is the little things that buck the bronco. I now seem to unconsciously equate living with a boy with having to eat copious amounts of sicklycarrot and coriander soup, and I don't like carrot and coriander soup- hence the displeasure. I refuse to believe that my reasons are trivial.
"So no ring on the finger just yet then, eh?" Nanna smiled. I didn't want to further spoil the mood by explaining that The Boyfriend thinks that putting a ring on my finger as a bit of Friday night kinky pleasure. He is not a traditionalist and certainly does not have marriage on his mind. Neither do I, actually. "No, not yet" I grimaced.
What I really wanted to say was that he is really good at sex and so what more reason do I need for part-time love than that, marriage/cohabitation/living within at least a ten mile radius or not?
In addition, I secretly thought, this part-time arrangement is particularly rewarding at the moment because I have shut up shop for essential maintenance. Lovely as the peak district is, the lack of Brazilian waxage facilities are currently far out-weighing the scenery. Right now I have a more hair than a chimpanzee. Nobody wants to cuddle up to that every night (although for the forseeable future, The Boyfirend will indeed have to put up with it for a maximum of three nights a week). Even the hairdressers in these parts leave a little to be desired. Fresh from the salon yesterday and feeling quite good, Verbose Auntie- whom (in)conveniently lives just across the road now- exclaimed, 'Oh wow! Did you do it yourself?'
Pass the carrot soup.
No comments:
Post a Comment