Last week, a friend declared, “I’ve decided I’m not reading your blog anymore.” When I asked him why, he said, “It used to be funny and angsty, and now it’s just sappy and happy.”

I know he was at least half kidding, but shit. Thanks a fuckin’ lot.

I will be the first to admit that I haven’t been doing very many uber-personal posts lately (well, except for that one about how often I pee). But, as I’ve wondered before, how many of you want to read about how perfect and brilliant and beautiful and, did I already say perfect, this new relationship is? My guess is, not many. So I try to keep the GTB talk to a minimum.

Do I still think about my ass? Abso-fuckin-lutely. But the thought of one (not too distant) day when I live in the same city as GTB and we can hump like bunnies anytime we want and my ass and love handles will disappear again keeps me from obsessing about it too much. I still go to the gym as much as I can, which isn’t as often as it should be since I feel like I spend most of my free time on I-5 between here and Portland. I still look at scones and fig newtons and the chocolates on my officemate’s desk with both fear and longing, tortured by the overwhelming desire to shove them in my mouth and the realization that the ecstasy will be short-lived and will necessitate another gym visit.

Do I still wonder why most men are such creeps? Why a good number of them don’t call when they say they are going to? Why there are such double standards about what is OK for women and men to do in the dating sphere? Why so many cool women I know are single? Why Seattle seems to be the black hole of available, commitment-minded people? Um, YES. But it doesn’t feel like my problem anymore. I could write many lengthy paragraphs about why my friends are so frustrated, but I figure I can leave that to them.

Isn’t there anything, you might ask, that I freak out about with GTB? Can it really be that perfect? No, and no. The one thing that just saves it from perfection is the fact that he lives so far away. I know Portland is only a three-hour drive, and that I get to see him pretty much every weekend. But the distance also means that an impromptu weeknight dinner is out of the question. It means that he’s only seen me in weekend gear (except for the fancy black dress I wore to my birthday party), which means he has no idea what I look like when I go to work in the morning. It means we don’t know the agony of getting out of a warm bed together at 6:30 in the morning, every morning, or the ecstasy of coming home to each other every night. It means we are both spending way too much money on gas and going out.

And it means that I have my heart broken every Sunday.

If that’s not angst, I don’t know what is. So there.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, January 24th, 2006 at 12:08 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.