Thursday, September 25, 2014

Single digits and controlling the sex beast in middle age

8 minutes to 8 days...

I need to write something about members of the LDS Church who work at controlling monstrous libido—because I know that's what everyone wants me to write about. Because some nights we—Mr. PNU and I—sit dazed, uncertain whether we should just elope or if we'll actually make it one more week. One thing I've not said before, and really it's TMI, is that both I and my beloved are heavy laden with sex drive. In the end that makes us a good match. Although we're not marrying to have sex, it's decidedly a perk once we reach the green light bliss of the wedded state. Right now, however, I am hyper aware of his every movement, keenly tapped into his body, brain-bathed in dopamine, and fighting compulsion to slip and touch at every turn.

2 minutes to 8 days...

...

7 days 23 hours 59 minutes...

We have rules and rules and rules. And most of the time we keep them. 

I've done this wedding thing before. A few times. I'm that cousin at family reunions, that sister in Relief Society. This time is like being a preschooler waiting for Christmas. I didn't know it's supposed to be this way. I also didn't know how badly I'd want to drive to Vegas, which is kind of like opening the presents early with a hair dryer so that the tape goes back into place. Devious. Impatient. Clever, yet lamely immature. 

7 days 23 hours 52 minutes...

We can do this.

Monday, September 15, 2014

Accounting for the last days

I'm a little stressed. Eighteen days; fifty minutes from seventeen. It can't come soon enough. I also don't have nearly enough time between now and then for everything that I'm doing. 

That everything would include: finish reading The Great Gatsby for Academic Writing and polish my thesis on self-deception as a topic of analysis, parse and render 26 sentences from ancient Greek to English, continue editor-in-chiefing the Pie Tin's lit journal (including cataloguing and reading all submissions this Thursday and Friday), organize the last details on a wedding that flies by the seat of its pants, manage a mother that I've once again braved contacting in order to do the right thing even though the anxiety this interaction gives me is worse than anything I've dealt with since Spring semester when I thought my time was running out with Mr. PNU. 

That brings me to Mr. PNU, who is sweeter, more compassionate, more tender a companion/best friend/lover/partner-in-crime I ever dreamed possible. I wouldn't make it through any of this without him. And to be fair to myself, I don't think he'd make it without me. Over the weekend we moved in at least half of his books and a good number of shelves. We brought his art too, and last night while we relaxed in the final minutes before he went back to the Valley of Salt we decided where it will best hang on the walls. Tonight, after school and grocery shopping, he taught me how to make bruschetta, and then we collapsed for an on and off nap before mustering the last bit of concluding energy to our day folding laundry and watching 30 Rock

At 10:05 I drove him to the train station. He counted up the remaining Mondays and Wednesdays we'll do this before we'll never have to say goodnight at the platform again. Five. Just five.

I catch myself. I forget sometimes that we've only been official for four months. It seems so much longer, so often an inevitability, something that shouldn't take as much patience as this waiting does.

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

Start with a mathematical plan and then cut it down to size

24 days.

Reason says the 103 days left of the original plan's half life were beyond absurd. Startlingly, we've received nothing but support and good will from everyone we've told. So what does it take to start a life with your best friend? We figure there are three main ingredients: poverty, crazy wild love, and complete impatience with living apart.

If you haven't taken the time to read this whole blog, start from the first day and read back through to today. Time and again we've received assurance from people who love us who've watched us come together, people who've offered blessings in our behalf that our being together wasn't some random occurrence. As much as we both fight the theory of determinism, who's to argue that there isn't something elegantly divine at work here? Perhaps, because we have leant our agency to the mixture, this arrangement is semi-compatiblism: the three-way design of gravity, humans and God.

And now we hope for further light and knowledge, for eternal glue, for continued increase, for charity and kindness, for longevity, for life beyond this.