Our anniversary took place on Sunday and that fact made me feel warm and fuzzy inside, and then three days later I was again thinking about splitting up.

I know this strikes you as a sign of being bipolar, but let me explain.

Before our anniversary celebration, which we decided to begin on Saturday night at midnight, we went shortly to a party of a friend of mine, who was overjoyed to see Boo, and invited him over. Thing is, she should have probably refrained from using the phrase “I know you haven’t been up to much, what with your sister dying, blah blah blah” (yes, blah blah blah is a literal quote) because I didn’t have to look at him to know what the reaction would be.

Needless to say, the midnight celebration didn’t quite look the way I expected it to. There wasn’t much joy and/or champagne, but there was a lot of dead sister talk mixed with a bit of “your friends can be so unpleasant sometimes” talk. We did, though, finally progress to actual anniversary, around 2am, and that was the fun bit.

On Sunday we went to the gym together, because that’s how we homo-homies roll, and I started talking to him about what needs to be done to my bathroom to improve its current (not very good) outlook. And then Boo said: “Well, another thing we could do is look at buying a new place together instead of improving the old one.”

I thought about the idea for the next two days more or less non-stop. And… I like it. For the first time in my life I really feel like settling down. Like living together, getting married, etc. But then, I thought, I have never stayed with Boo longer than a few days; and every time I more or less put my normal life on hold. I don’t sit in front of the computer, don’t read much, don’t listen to my music but his most of the time, don’t do cleaning… that’s all lovely and fine but it’s not what actual life together is like. So I thought, I’ll suggest that we first need to live together for a few weeks at his place, since it’s larger than mine, and if we don’t kill each other off, we can take a further step.

“Oh, no, that’s not going to happen,” said Boo semi-cheerfully. “This place isn’t big enough for both of us. We both need space. When you’re my age, you’re going to realise that. It’s just unrealistic.”

And that was it. Patronising, quick, dismissive. Within a minute I have realised that he’s been single for too long to actually give it up. Hell, so have I, to be honest, and that’s why before I give it up I want to give it a test drive. There is no way in hell I sell my house and move in with him to a 400 thousand euro place without first finding out whether we can actually survive without killing each other on a daily basis, rather than on a more or less “every day is like Sunday” basis. It has nothing to do with age (especially as I also want my space if we live together). It has all to do with the fact that I worked far too long to get where I am to risk losing it now. And moving from living in separate apartments to the degree where I don’t even have a shelf at his place (nor he in mine, but we spend 80% time at his) straight to buying a house together strikes me as extremely risky.

So it’s probably not going to happen, I thought then. We’re not going to move in together. I won’t change my mind, so unless he changes his, this is the farthest we are going to get. And thing is, I *am* feeling ready to settle — and I am tired of traveling up and down and never being at my own apartment and never having time to clean up or even finally arrange books on my bookshelf a year after having moved in.

Perhaps he has just lived too long on his own to now really be able to give it up? On one hand, he loves me, and I love him too, on the other, perhaps he doesn’t love me quite enough yet? Perhaps I should just wait longer? Perhaps I am wasting my time? Perhaps I will one day discover I am 39 and still biking up and down twice a week to meet a guy 13 years senior who isn’t quite ready to really, really share his life with anyone else? Perhaps I’m stupid?

It’s odd to feel like this a few days after an anniversary that should have left me giddy in excitement (and did, for two days), but I can’t help thinking that perhaps, after all, I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.

We are approaching an anniversary.

This is what I wrote at S&T30 about Boo originally:

“A longhaired guy visited my profile on gaydar, I messaged him jokingly because I misread the captions on his pics — short-haired “July 2006″ which I read as “July 2008″, then lovely long locks on “August 2008″, so I just had to ask. That lead to a rather nice chat, which was sadly cut short because he had to go offline. I happen to like people more when their profiles do not feature photographs of their genitals and their messages are more elaborate than “hi sexy”, and this guy scores on both counts. Hope there’ll be more chatting to come. And, damn, that’s a really damn hot 44-year-old.”

Then, a while later, on November 29:

“Tonight on the other hand I am meeting Boo. Boo is the 44-year-old longhaired bloke whom I wrote about the last time. We’re going to have dinner together at his place and watch a movie. As for whether anything else is going to happen, I have no idea — I’m at the stage of my life right now where I don’t plan, don’t expect and don’t assume — and it’s working quite nicely. So far.”

It’s been, as you can see, over 11 months since then. It is open to interpretation what should we choose as the “starting” date — first message? First dinner together? First kiss? First sex? (In case that is not obvious, that’s four different dates.) Anyway, by now I knew him for almost a year.

We talked about our relationship this weekend. None of us is anxious to move in together or get married; even though I entertain the thought of proposing every now and then (particularly moments when Boo does something REALLY cute), I can see that I love my loneliness sometimes; I love to just not see anyone, go to my own bed on my own, spend the evening in front of my computer. Boo feels similar, plus, he has been burnt very badly before and so he is rather keen on keeping the arrangement that we have, which is working, rather than changing it onto a different one that could work or not. Never change a winning formula, etc.

I don’t always like being with him. I don’t always like how I act when he is around; I let him take over most of the time, he’s a natural leader — this could become a problem, because I don’t necessarily think I am a natural follower. Sometimes I think he’s a prat. Sometimes I think he treats me like a kid. Sometimes I end up saying yes to things to please him, and then I don’t like myself for saying it. Sometimes I expect him to act the way person of my nationality would, and then he doesn’t, and then I am angry with myself.

Every day I ask myself, should I be in a relationship? Should I be with this particular man? Every day, so far, at least since our last breakup, the answer is yes. Even though I do sometimes miss being single, I do get dirty thoughts regarding other men, I do wish certain aspects of Boo’s personality were different… at the end it comes down to this — I don’t know if I want to be in a relationship, but if I do, it’s hard to believe there is a better match out there for me than Boo.

I am a bit scared right now.

I am also a bit drunk right now. Both things are due to the fact I had an accident today on my bike. (Don’t worry, no wounds that look like they’re gonna last.)

It’s just that the accident made me realise how fragile my happiness is. How fragile my body is. How small the distance is between being a happy, successful professional with a gorgeous boyfriend and a body in the morgue.

When I was 13 I thought grown ups were, basically, people who could buy all the sweets they wanted. My mom would only give me a small bit of chocolate and I would think “just you wait — I’ll buy a WHOLE ONE when I am older, and I will EAT it and you won’t be able to STOP me”. Little did I know that once I grew up I was going to discover I actually don’t like sweets much*.

When I was 19, I thought I was going to meet my perfect man — most probably along the lines of me slipping in a supermarket, him extending a hand, us looking deep into each others’ eyes and falling in love — and spend the rest of life with him in our white house with two white Labradors. (I don’t know why, especially since I don’t really like dogs much, but that’s what the vision was.) It didn’t quite happen.

It was much later that I have discovered being a grown-up actually means being responsible. Even if you don’t agree something is your fault. Even if you feel treated unfair. Even if you want to scream “THIS IS NOT WHAT I ORDERED”. Even if you have no faintest clue what to do. Being a grown-up means you have to make your own choices. And not just easy ones, like “red or white” or what you’ll have for dinner. Difficult ones, too. Like: single or coupled? Or: insured or uninsured? Or…

When I was 31 I met Boo. I was quite happy being single, and it made me think that perhaps I am not so happy being in a relationship. It made me question every single day, every single meeting between the two of us: does this make me happier or less happy than being single?

And now that I have been 32 for whole 6 days I have discovered that having someone you can call at 9am after having had an accident — someone who will come over, take you home, make you tea and sandwiches, ask you 10 times if you need any groceries done, shower you with hugs and kisses, make quite a few sexual innuendos (which is quite a nice thing when you consider yourself as sexual as a pair of slippers), force you to stop worrying about What Might Happen and insist quite a few times you should go home with him and spend the rest of the day in his bed (even though you know for a fact he is shit busy in the next few days and the very last thing he needs is someone distracting him from what he has to do)… well… having a person like that is actually kind of worth an awful lot. Even if they weren’t all that nice towards you last night, even if they suggested you used to dress badly until they made you dress better (true fact), even if they woke you up at 2am because they couldn’t sleep and got bored. Even then. Even then being able to call them at ANY time and knowing they will come over as soon as possible… is worth LOADS.

Today, I might have just reconsidered my idea of what I want from life.

* I would be grateful if a native English speaker told me if this sentence is grammatically correct. Serious.

A slightly irritating, but mostly fascinating article in Times Online on four women that are “still single”.

The irritating bit is in the title already: “still single”. It suggests that there is something wrong with being single, and that those women should look at their miserable lives and reassess why are they STILL single. “Four women look at reasons why they haven’t found the right man”, boasts the sub-headline. Obviously, the reader thinks, women’s goal in life is finding the right man, and those four failed.

But then you read their confessions and they don’t really sound like failures. Gemma, 29, admits that she’s so damn picky she probably won’t find anyone for a while longer (which could be interpreted as “I really, really don’t want a boyfriend but I had to answer this question you know”). Edwina, 39, beauty director at Times, snaps: “Why am I single? Oh, you sound just like my mother.” Then explains she’d kind of like to meet The One, but it’s not a goal that defines her life. If it happens, it happens. Lulu, 38, says she’s “too alpha female” which can make relationships dead difficult indeed — in my experience people (I didn’t say “women”, I said “people”) like that tend to look for someone even stronger than they are; not someone weak and easily crushed, and when you’re an alpha female, most people seem weak and easily crushed in comparison. Thing is, most alpha men tend to be assholes with predilection for women more similar to Megan Fox than Lulu Le Vay; after you’ve spent a day at work being constantly challenged, I imagine, the last thing you want at home is more of the same. Francesca, 30, simply isn’t interested in anything long-term just yet.

One of the commentators sums up things much better than the title and headline of this article do:

“The last time I saw my friend’s married sister she asked ‘are you still desperately looking for a man?’ I managed to ignore the inaccuracy of her question, kept my gob shut and silently focused on her situation.
Her husband has gone bankrupt twice, they’ve lost their house and when they had a house he used to say to her in arguments ‘Your name isn’t on the deeds so if we split up you won’t get the house’. I think I’ll stick with trying to find someone decent and respectful. Being single is definately better than having her taste in men.”

This is exactly my take on the issue, perhaps because despite having been in a relationship for quite a while now I still remember my single days, and I remember them fondly. Whoever authored/edited this feature — well, it’s four women speaking out, but someone must have thought of the title, headline and whole idea — I would like to ask, why is it only women that have to explain why they are single? Do we still live in a world where women are tragic spinsters and men are glamorous bachelors by default? What is it about “still not having found the right man”? Do you ever see men explaining painstakingly why they haven’t found the right woman yet? (Other than closeted gay men, that is.)

I want to see an interview with George Clooney that starts with “Why is he still single: too picky? too independent? too alpha-male? George Clooney explains his failure in finding the right woman”. STET.

Most of the people I meet… okay, most of the guys I meet tend to have their own song in my head, at least at the beginning; a song that sums my feelings about them up to a tee.

To give some examples, Arwen had “Angel” by Madonna; Barry had “Here It Comes Again” by Tracey Thorn (which I am listening to now, hence the association); the DJ had “Say Hey” by Kylie Minogue; against my will, BM’s was “Cold” by Annie Lennox; Mr. Big had “You’re In A Bad Way” by Saint Etienne; and Boo had “Come A Day” by Beth Hirsch.

Sometimes after a breakup with the person their song becomes impossible for me to listen to; I couldn’t listen to “You’re In A Bad Way” for half a year because it was akin to smelling someone’s perfume. I guess you can see why I wouldn’t want to do that. Luckily, wounds heal; and songs regain their original meaning in your life, well — in mine, and the only thing that remains is a quiet smile to myself as I hear a certain intro and remember a funny thing about a relationship I had with the person one time in the past.

It’s funny how life goes. I met Arwen recently, well — saw, not met; he looked haggard and tired, gave me a very serious look (which was why I recognised him, otherwise I would just miss him, but he stared VERY intently) and, generally, didn’t look like someone who could be associated with a throwaway, lightweight pop song like “Angel”. I still chat with the DJ regularly — he never lost hope that he’ll drag me to his bed one day, and I still like him as, well, a DJ — but “Say Hey” has proved to be far too special for him. I will have lunch with Barry coming Thursday, and he will be his usual whining self, and I will sit there quietly, smiling at myself, sipping caramel latte and thinking of how odd life is. Mr. Big’s song proved to be very well chosen; he was in a bad way, and I have no clue if he still is, but it is not up to me to straighten his path. And as for Boo? “Come A Day” is a very soothing song that goes:

Come a day I’ll walk this earth
Where steps are taken sure
Come a day though it seem far away
Lines that bind are pure
Had to find it
No way round it
Quick sand had a chance…
So come, come on, come a day
Your eyes are where I’m right at home

Love, and life, truly are amazing things, and, as I said to Boo the other day, life is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.

Boo’s sister died last week.

It is neither as shocking nor as surprising as it may seem; she was ill for a long time, landed in hospital many times, and this time she just didn’t recover. The only unexpected bit was that she has actually been on the road to recovery, and then all of a sudden had a fatal cardiac arrest. Boo wasn’t in contact with her for years, but now is really hit him hard, and I completely understand and see why, and I try to be by his side as much as possible.

And I hate it.

It’s not that I can’t help him or that I dread sharing the downsides of life as much as upsides. I try and I do help; I listen to him, I make myself available, I cook for him, help him (as much as I can) with the funeral, I stay at his place every day since the news — in fact, today is the first evening I am spending at my own place since last Thursday. And that is exactly what the problem is.

I miss my loneliness so much more than I thought. I miss my guinea pig, I miss my cooking, my weird bathroom, my patio that I completed weeks ago and haven’t used once since. I miss my bed, my pillows, my growing pile of magazines that I bought and haven’t opened, my books, my cupboard filled with clothes (as opposed to having one or two t-shirts stuck in my backpack), my music, my computer, my blue wall, my Michael Jackson poster, my noise and my silence.

I miss being “me” rather than “us”.

It is ironic that his friends and family like me, and I like them too. I love Boo, and there is no other man in my life. I just wish there was more of me in my life. I am still busy discovering who the real Kiran is, the one who isn’t depressed, repressed, ashamed of himself, trying to please other people and being scared of failing them. The one who suddenly turned from having a social phobia into itching to meet people so hard that he’s thinking of working as a barman one day a week for no other reason than to talk to loads of people and observe them. And Boo is… security, stability and… and a man who said last Saturday that he wants to marry me. And that he’s very happy to have me in his bed every night and to fall asleep and wake up next to me. I just wish I could say the same, instead of being pissed off that on my one evening alone at home I have to do the laundry, clean my guinea pig’s cage, do some shopping (and throw away food that passed its expiry date in the meantime), do dishes and more or less force myself to relax a bit because next chance to read a magazine in bed will not occur until next week.

I honestly don’t know what to do. Am I just not the marrying kind after all? Or is it just the fact that we always meet at his place and that I don’t even have a shelf there for myself? But then, if I ask him to make me a shelf, I will get deeper into the “us” state, and I already don’t like it where it is now…?

Sigh.

Someone pass me some wine.

For the last… almost 9 months — since I met Boo — I kept on checking my gaydar messages periodically. So has he. We both met people there that we were not planning to be involved romantically or sexually with, but didn’t want to lose contact either. That was the official line.

In the last two months alone I received about three or four proposals of, well, sexual nature. That included a guy who wanted to see my tattoos up close and informed that my boyfriend wouldn’t approve suggested that boyfriend joins us (without even knowing what Boo looks like or how old he is, which I suppose I should take as a very dubious complement). Another kept on checking every 3-4 weeks as to whether I’m available by now, which also felt sort of complimentary.

It’s just that I don’t need this kind of self validation. Same as I don’t need to go to a gay pub and end up snogging someone in the darkest corner, or catching a STD. I am aware of my attractiveness, I have a great sex life and it’s all good and well that 99% gay relationships in this town involve threesomes, visits sex clubs and all other forms of openness, but personally I’m just not that interested. I see no reason why I would. Perhaps in a year or two, when the inevitable drop in hormon level comes, I will, but really, right now I don’t.

I deleted my gaydar account over a week ago. Boo found out a few days ago and did the same. It’s not that he doesn’t trust me or I don’t trust him, we just… don’t need those accounts anymore. And let’s face it, if there is anyone I met more than 9 months ago and didn’t trust enough to give my email to, I don’t think I need that person in my life.

Sometimes I think: I should quit my job. It makes no sense for me to continue working there, I am bored most of the time, my boss isn’t half as nice as he used to be, I could be doing something that actually develops my skills rather than half-utilises them. I could be working somewhere, you know, exciting. And, dammit, I could make more money than I do now AND enjoy it better. Also the fact that they are now used to me working fast, always making the deadlines, providing high quality solutions and solving unsolvable problems means it’s not really possible to impress them; worse, they now want more. If you gave it 100% for three years and now your bosses want more, perhaps you’re better off excusing yourself and moving on?

Sometimes though I think: in this economy it is madness to throw away a permanent contract, especially when I have a mortgage to pay. I don’t really need more money. And excitement? Do I really need excitement from my job? Perhaps I just need security? Boss used to be nicer, but really, compared to the Meryl Streep character in The Devil Wears Prada, my boss is an angel who quietly flies through the sky playing his harp while his wings make quiet tinkling noises. What if I get an amazing job that pays shitloads but I have to cope with a Streep-like character? I wouldn’t last an hour. And actually am I as talented as I like to sometimes imagine I am…?

Sometimes I think: This isn’t working for me. I am not made for a relationship with one man, I can’t imagine us moving in together, I can’t imagine this going any further than it already is, really. True, we love each other, but I’m just not old enough for this. Not yet. Maybe in a year or two. But now… I still want to meet other guys. And… we’re not really compatible in many ways, from alarm clocks through food habits through choice of holidays through books we read through… And I can see this going wrong not even five years from now, but three months.

Sometimes though I think: I love this man, and we have amazing sex, and we have a good time together. He teaches me so much. He is gorgeous, smart, sweet, sexy, you fill in the blanks. Perhaps it doesn’t matter that he isn’t what I expected my boyfriend/husband would be. Perhaps he doesn’t need to. Perhaps I should just get over myself and start thinking of a logistically simple way to move in together. And really, it’s been eight months now, and we’ve been through good times, worse times and amazing times, we’ve had fights and we’ve learned to make up. Isn’t that what a perfect relationship should be like? If I throw this away, will I be a complete doofus?

Sometimes I think: the book I am writing will be amazing, and it will be so different from all the other books on the subject. It will make me famous and rich and I will become a professional writer with his own column in some magazine (that is, until all magazines go bankrupt in 2011 the latest). I should spend less time playing The Sims, listening to music while being stoned and reading DListed, and I should spend more time working on the book.

Sometimes though I think: this is useless. Nobody will want to print this crap. Why would they? There are THOUSANDS of similar books. Except written by native English speakers with amazing command of language. And there are further thousands of books that do NOT get printed despite being written by native English speakers with amazing command of language, because there is simply a limited amount of space in the market. Plus, in this economy, etc. (I personally know a writer who signed a contract, got an advance, then the publishing house withdrew the book from its plans because of the crisis — they let him keep the advance though.)

(Oh, of course he is a native English speaker with amazing command of language.)

Sometimes I think: I should make decisions faster and not ponder on them for weeks and months no end.

Sometimes I think: I make decisions far too fast and I should think much more before I decide, especially on important matters.

Sometimes I think grass is always greener on the other side.

On Saturday I did something that didn’t go well. Let’s not go into detail. But I failed Boo, and I was very sorry about that. I said I was sorry, and I brought him a gift, and apologised. He said he was disappointed and angry once, twice, three times. After the fourth time I lost my patience a bit and jokingly threatened that if he doesn’t stop, I’ll shave my hair off (he likes me with hair) and he quietened.

We spent a lovely weekend. Went to a great party on Saturday evening. Had a quiet, lovely Sunday filled with cuddling and hugging and telling each other how much in love we are, etc. I felt happy, relaxed and really really loved. Until Monday morning.

On Monday Boo got out of bed without a word and went to the kitchen. A bit puzzled, I followed him. He was avoiding my looks, and when he crossed his arms on his chest I could not only tell he was angry with me, but I also knew what it was — it was the Saturday thing, which typically for him he thought a bit more about and decided it was a major deal after all. So I conversationally started — “it’s very fascinating to watch your body language” — and half an hour later he left the apartment slamming the door, after declaring that if he had a problem with me he was merely declaring disappointment, but if I had a problem with him I was making him feel guilty and it wasn’t fair.

I left 10 minutes later. I took a quick shower, got dressed, packed my things and left a short note: “I’ve had a great weekend. Serious. Thank you.” Once I was on my way my phone rang. It was Boo, asking me to come back and talk — he was coming back home when he saw me depart, then he found my note and called me.

We were back to being in love less than an hour later, which is a major progress from breaking up and not talking to each other for a day, or even from talking about it all night and finally making up in the dawn. And I thought, this is impressive. We are obviously learning how to deal with each other; learning to let go, learning to not guard our pride with all weaponry we possess. I said again that I was sorry about disappointing him. He said it was okay. We said we loved each other. And then we had lovely make-up sex.

It is a bit of a different feeling when you go out with your single friend, and you meet someone really really cute, and you hit it off right away, and your single friend kinda nudges you to go for it… and then you say bye and leave, because you have a boyfriend.

But then, 784 beers later, you arrive at home and you think that you sort of wish you were allowed to ask what the cute boy does when he’s not busy being a bartender and would he like to give you your phone number so that you could discuss it sometime.