Last night I headed over to the BF’s with a load on my back and a chip on my shoulder.  The load: another batch of my stuff to transfer to his place in preparation for the impending move out of my current hell of an apartment. The chip: my body’s response, in the form of frayed nerves and high blood pressure and bad attitude, to another day spent dealing with institutional inefficiency at NYU.

I arrived and unloaded my backpack, but the chip is harder to remove.  It requires the combined actions of wine and grace.  Cooking can be therapeutic too, and as I boiled potatoes and simmered beans, I felt the burden of the day begin to lift.  That’s when I noticed that the apartment was uncharacteristically quiet: no P90X drills or Sportscenter in the background, no American Idol theme song blasting.  The TV’s services had not yet been enlisted for the evening.  Instead, the BF and I talked as I prepared dinner and he prepared for his trip to Atlanta.  It’s always better to have the “How was your day?” drill without Ryan Seacrest chiming in.

Then the BF pulled his new Interview Suit, picked up just that afternoon, out of its shiny garment bag and went to try it on.  A few minutes later, the stove was under control and I went to check him out.  He was in front of the bathroom mirror, straightening his tie and collar, standing there in charcoal jacket and pants, blue shirt, and silver tie.  Barefoot.  I saw those toes peeking out under the expensive fabric and felt the now-familiar punch in the heart I get when the reminder of how much I love him breaks through the monotony of daily life.  The taking-for-granted part subsides: the toilet seat left up, the crumbs on the floor, the dirty glass on the table sans coaster.  All of it gets shoved back in its rightful place on the shelf marked “Minutiae” and our life is, for a moment, stripped down to what matters, what brought us here in the first place.  Love.

This guy bought this suit so that he could go rock an interview that could take us to a new city where we’ll start our life and family together.  This guy created an Excel spreadsheet entitled The List (a man after my own heart indeed) that sums up all that must be accomplished before, during, and after our move from New York to Georgia. This guy is everything I could ever hope for in a provider, friend, and love.  This guy in a suit in front of me is always planning for our next step, usually while I’m chopping food in the kitchen wondering why I’m always doing everything.

He does what he does for us.  When I grow up, and when our kids grow up, I hope we’re just like him.