So of course right after I say I can’t write a dating blog any more because I don’t have a lot to say about my relationship I have something to say about my relationship.
There’s this idea that romance is serious business, and while there is definitely a time and place for that, I most tend to lean more towards goofy than grave. I am a very silly person, and with Bogart I just may have met my match in that regard.
Take, for example, the ridiculous conversations we have in bed. Pillow talk in the movies is all sexy-serious—grown ups having grown up conversations about life goals and where the relationship is going. Not us.
Me, one night a few months ago, during a period of silence: Whatcha thinkin’ about?
B: Do you really want to know?
Me: Of course!
B: Would you still love me if my spirit inhabited a toaster?
Another classic evening exchange:
Me: That’s irrefutable.
B: You’re irrecutable.
Me: Awww, thanks.
B: Because you’re irritating and cute.
This week, it was my turn to turn up the weird. We visited the familiar territory of “if I had the opposite junk for a day,” and I decided this dream could be made reality by a simple body swap. Then I got worried about the details because this is very obviously a thing that is going to happen. ‘You can’t put meat in my body,’ I declared. I was informed that not only would Bogart-as-Steph eat meat, he would kick the day off with a double ham sandwich. The damn chef I live with couldn’t even give me salmon sashimi or something that isn’t gross lunch meat on fucking Wonderbread. So pedestrian. I decided I needed a bargaining chip, that I would incentivize his meatless journey in my body. ‘You can pierce my nipples if you don’t eat meat.’ A few things: I was sober, and when he got up to get a glass of water, I felt the need to reiterate our deal for our Freaky Friday style body swap. You know, just in case.
It’s not all highly intellectual conversations. Sometimes, I annoy him into submission with incessant poking, but mostly I just flail about in an attempt to smack his ass every time he gets up (often hitting his leg or just missing altogether). He in turn enjoys styling my already ridiculous hair so I look like a nightmare 90’s club kid and/or troll doll and telling me how great it looks.
Romance is not at all what it looks like in the movies. It’s better.