It's a secret that will inspire furrowed brows and dubious "tsk"s from some; waterfalls of champagne and party planning from others. It's a secret that I've not let escape for fear of the avalanche that may ensue, this being the smallest and uppermost snowball on this many-tiered snowman of secrets. It's a secret I've not let escape for fear that doing so will jinx it and ruin everything.
But it's time. Fuck me and my silly superstitions. This is too big a secret to keep in the closet. Feast your eyes on this:
It's half empty. Not because I've been reevaluating my wardrobe and pulling my rejected clothes out, but because I'm preparing for someone else's clothes to be moving in.
Someone else's clothes.
And this is where the secret begins its avalanche. Because there is a huge part of my life I've not been writing about; a huge part of my life that is conspicuously absent from this blog.
I've kept very quiet about The Man, dropping him into my posts here and there, but far too casually to match the weight of our relationship. I've certainly never dared going into the details of how we met, the beautiful disaster that was the first two years we knew each other, the falling away, the coming back together mere months before he moved to Dallas by way of Toronto, our subsequent two years of long distance dating.
Two years. And with nothing more to build our relationship on than hope and frequent flyer miles.
And the all consuming love.
But everything was still rubble when he left, shaky and uncertain. Not the love. From the very beginning, the love has always been infuriatingly unshakeable. But everything else. We were not something a betting man would put his money on.
We were not something my dearest friends would put their money on.
But all of my money was on us. Every penny. With no reason to trust in this love, but trusting it anyway. Because my gut told me to. Because I knew if I didn't at least give it a shot, I would always wonder what might have been. Because I have never felt this way about another living soul. Not even close.
Not even close.
But as resolute was my decision to give us a second chance, I was still wounded from our first. I was scared and uncertain enough. I didn't want to risk letting good intentioned naysayers sprinkle doubt onto an already precarious situation. And so I opted to rebuild our relationship outside of the scrutiny of the internet.
And now that I'm ready to tell you that the entire top row of my shoe rack is empty (along with the floor space in front), it feels more than a little hollow because you don't know what we've been through in order to to get to empty rows on shoe racks.
You'll just have to trust me when I tell you that if I make room for someone else's shoes in my closet, it's momentous. And though I'm not sure yet how to tell our story - our real story, from the beginning - I do think it's one worth telling.
That will be volume one. Volume two begins now, with this post. No more hiding The Man.
The details are not settled yet, but he'll be here before summer's end. And I am deliriously happy.
Bonjour: Paris Surrounds
1 day ago