It was a really yummy cupcake. Entirely homemade. She didn’t even use a box mix or canned icing!

(My managers sometimes don’t understand that being 5’2” and 115 pounds limits what I can conceivably do. I got so overwhelmed with what I was asked to do today that I actually cried on my lunch break. It was pretty pathetic.)

Here is what my week will look like for the rest of the semester:

Sunday: Work 10-7, homework 

Monday: Babysit 10-2, class 4-7

Tuesday: Class 11-6:15, homework

Wednesday: Babysit 10-2, homework day

Thursday: Class 11-6:15, homework

Friday: Babysit 10-2, work 3-12

Saturday: Work 11-8, homework 

REPEAT. 

I’ve only just started it, but it’s tiring. Mentally, I am drained from school. Physically, I am drained from work and lack of sleep. Emotionally, I am drained because that’s a very isolating schedule. I’ll see my bf and some of my friends at work, but outside of work? I have no time to see them. I have friends I haven’t seen in MONTHS, some that I haven’t seen in nearly a YEAR. Today my doctor told me I should take up yoga to help correct my posture, but I HAVE NO TIME. I want to get back to running, I want to take a yoga class, but, fuck, WHEN? 

I was nearly in tears today because I was just tired. I was tired and I was tired of dealing with stupid people. There was no respite today. Stupid grape sale, stupid boyfriend being called in early, stupid pms-ing.

I really just need a hug. A hug and his arm around me while I sleep. I didn’t realize how accustomed I grew to sharing a bed until this past week. I miss it. Ugh, I am gross.  

The upside of all of this is, “OMG, I HAVE MONEY!” Like, I will actually have SAVINGS this year which is a concept that I just laughed at the past couple of years because what money? And my grades will be kickass. I hope. I am using my planner like it’s… a thing that you use a lot. Well, that metaphor went no where, but you know what I mean. Also, what with doing all my homework and really concentrating on my classes (almost all of them for my French major), I should be way more at ease and SKILLED with French by the end of the semester. I mean, after 4 years in France and growing up with a French-speaking father, I speak it well enough, but I want to be able to teach it to my kids, to speak it as easily and as well as I speak English. Right now, that’s not the case. This year should change that.

… Damn it.

He asked me that yesterday when he was driving me home. It caught me off guard. No, I don’t think we’re boring. And then I panicked. Wait, does he think we’re boring? I asked him. No, he doesn’t. (I asked him again 12 hours later just to make sure.)

So, why do you ask that? Someone said we were. Who? I don’t remember. Liar. Who? Jeff. He said we were very black and white as a couple. What did he mean by that? That we’re predictable.

Maybe we are a little predictable. Maybe we look a little boring to other people. Neither of us has a whole lot of money to go places and he doesn’t have a whole lot of time either just now, so we mostly end up just chilling at home. I don’t mind that. I like going out and I would like to do more with him—museums, movies, the zoo, the park, dinner, whatever—but I’m also happy to to stay in. Spending the morning in bed, watching him cook for me, and talking shit to him or just reading while he plays video games is fun. I like it. I like just being with him, so it really doesn’t matter what we’re doing. 

Besides, what’s so bad about predictability? I’m pretty much a homebody at heart. For all that I like travel and moved a lot growing up, all I want in life is a stable home. And I’ve seen some of the relationships our friends have, that some of my friends have had throughout the years— breaking up and getting back together every few months, loud, angry fights, and a week of silence afterwards. I don’t want that.  So predictable is fine with me, thank you very much. Surprise me every once in a while, but for the day-to-day of it all, I want someone I can count on. It’s not boring, it’s safe.

This thing scares me. It’s my first real relationship. My first adult relationship. He won’t be the first one I’ve loved, but he’ll be the best one I’ve loved yet. He’s a good man. Smart, funny, maddeningly good at pushing my buttons. Loves his family, loves his friends, loyal to a fault. He pushes me and expects me to push him back. I don’t love him yet, but I will. 

He’s going to break my heart. It’s a funny thing to think about right now, right at the beginning, but I know it’s coming and, sometimes when I look at him, I see it. Part of me wants to jump ship now, save myself. Most of me wants to see it through. When we break up, it’s going to be ugly. We work together, practically live together, go to school together. Our lives are so entangled. 

I’ve known him for a little over a year. Been fucking him for a year. Had a crush on him for seven months. Been sleeping in his bed for four months. Been dating him (officially) for two months. We were a long time coming. It’s only going to get worse. Those numbers are only going to go up.

I don’t know how to cut someone out of my life all at once. Go cold turkey. I guess I’ll learn. 

Two years from now, we’ll be important chapters in each other’s dating history. I’ll miss the way he yells “zombie!” when I bite him. He’ll miss the way I chastise him in French. We won’t speak anymore, but we’ll occasionally stalk each other’s Facebook profiles. It’s that little you itch you shouldn’t scratch (it will only make it worse!), but you do it anyway. I hope I’ll be able to smile when I think of him. Eventually. 

I’m a better person in part because of him and I’ve learned a lot from him. How to communicate. How to get angry. How to stand up for myself in a relationship. What a healthy relationship is. When we break up, I’ll still have those things.

The hopeful romantic in me thinks maybe I’m underestimating us. Maybe we’ll survive. Maybe we’ll last. I’d kind of like that. 

But it’s so much easier to imagine the eventual demise of “us” than to picture a future of “we this” and “we that.” I caught myself using “we” at his house the other day when I was showing his friend I just met the contents of the refrigerator. “We have a few gluten-free things in here…” We? Where did that come from? Oh, right, from being a couple. From being with him every night for the past week. From our boss switching his schedule and then switching mine so we can work together. From our friends (oh god, our friends) inviting us to their wedding (their wedding) with a single invitation. “You’re each other’s plus one.” 

So instead of looking too hard at all of that, I just ponder our inevitable break-up. Apparently, I find the thought of failure and heartbreak romantic. 

All the books we own, both read and unread, are the fullest expression of self we have at our disposal. … But with each passing year, and with each whimsical purchase, our libraries become more and more able to articulate who we are, whether we read the books or not.

—

Nick Hornby (via whenthecamerasoff)

This may be true, but I still need to get around to reading all my books. I feel guilty about all the unread books sitting on my bookshelf. I feel like a phony (and, no, that’s not a Catcher in the Rye reference. I hated that book.)

(Source: popcultureinfatuation)