The way we move

I miss the way we move together.

When we first started seeing each other, you would come to see me in Austin. It was early in the relationship and we were still figuring out each others' patterns. I remember during your first visit, you arrived with your own Ziplock-bag full of teas. Even though I am a yoga teacher and lived with another one, you were still (correctly) concerned that these coffee-addicted yogi girls may not have your proper types of tea: Everyday Detox, Green (but not Jasmine!), Smooth Move (just in case), Peppermint, and Ginger Peach. You had made the right call. We had plenty of tea, but most were caffeinated and tasted like women's perfume.

In those days, you and I were still figuring out how each other moved through life.

But after ten months of daily Google Hangouts that lasted into the wee hours of each morning, bi-monthly visits (we were very fortunate), and simply getting to know one another, we realized how synchronized our paths were. While maybe we chose different hot beverages, you used an electric toothbrush and I (initially) used a manual, you ate eggs on salad for breakfast and I often skipped the meal, and you did laundry all the time and I waited until it piled up – we actually meshed really well. The slight differences became aligned, either by embracing our independent choices, a la tea or coffee, or a gentle compromise, like you purchasing me a Sonicare toothbrush for my 29th birthday, ensuring that I also completed my full two-minutes twice daily. I took on the breakfast egg salad with ease, realizing quickly that breakfast indeed was "the most important meal of the day". You generally did the laundry, but I bought you a bunch more boxers so you could wait longer in between loads. But the 'big stuff' came easy.

It was on your very first visit to Austin, in fact it was the first night of that first visit, when I asked you if you believed in marriage and wanted children. I did it as smoothly as I could muster, which was not very smoothly at all, and you later loved to remind me of that. But you said, "Yes". You believed in the sanctity and you wanted to be a daddy. You weren't in a big rush, but the answer was firm. You weren't freaked out by the forwardness of my question, in fact you respected it. I remember a weight lifting from my chest. Thank God, I thought, because I really like this guy. I didn't want to jump into something with the wrong guy, again. I had very recently come out of the worst-decision-relationship of my life and was, wisely, not totally trusting my own choices in men. But the more I got to know you, the more I realized you were what all of the bad-choices and the good-choices-for-the-time-being and the learning-relationships had been for.

We didn't just agree on marriage and family. We also agreed on politics. We agreed on commitment. We agreed on bedtimes and wake-up times. We agreed on the importance of exercise. We agreed on music, although you ruled that roost and that was fine. We agreed on how tidy we liked our home. We agreed on the temperature on the thermostat. We agreed on sides-of-the-bed. We agreed on what nights we wanted to party and what nights we wanted to lay low. We agreed on diet. We agreed on money, you allowed me to contribute regularly. We agreed on making the bed. We agreed on religion, you obliged to raising our eventual-kids Jewish. We agreed on humor: dirty, fun of witty puns, and constant. We agreed on education, the Waldorf school in Boulder. We agreed on communication, only love, never fight, little to no sarcasm. We agreed on sex, daily, at least. We agreed on honesty. We agreed on where to get takeout meals from. We agreed on independence. We agreed on personal space. We agreed on public display of affection. We agreed on nearly everything, and it wasn't because we were co-dependent or overly compromising, we just fucking agreed. Simply, we fit. It was easy.

Yesterday, I went to a party here in Steamboat. It was the 8th annual chili-cookoff for a friend of my weekend hosts. I felt OK about going... considering. Operating on auto-pilot, which I'm learning very well, I dressed myself and brushed my hair. I put on a smile, waterproof-mascara, and big sunglasses. I walked into the house surrounded by my support-group of our hosts, my dad, and three close friends.

As I entered the door, in front of me thirty joyful people mingled, mostly coupled-off and many holding babies and gripping the hands of curious toddlers. I blinked back the tears that immediately welled without warning. I took three deep breaths, which you always told me to do in situations like this. I saw a couple members of my team staring at me with pity and concern, noticing the reaction. This was going to be really, really hard, I thought. I considered spinning on my heels and bolting out the door.

I haven't been drinking any alcohol or using anything since your death. Besides for a natural sleep tincture, I had decided keeping my system clear of depressants and sedatives is important for this process. Maybe it's a bit self-harming but I want to feel all of the pain, not compartmentalize it or stuff it into a box or a pill. This is the saddest and darkest I've ever been, by leagues and leagues, so I may as well sit with it in its entirety. I didn't know how long this plan would last for and I honestly didn't have an expectation for myself other than "take care of yourself" and "be cautious".

After those three deep breaths and those concerned looks, I excused myself into the bathroom. I couldn't breath. Tears streamed down my face. My hands pulled into tight fists. I stared at my own eyes in the mirror and said, "Holy fucking shit, Ted. I miss you," out-loud. If I was going to buck up and do this, I was going to need a beer, and that was OK. I accepted my own decision to drink some social lubricant and take the edge off. I'm glad I did, because that beer and those deep breaths got me through the next three-hours. It got me through tasting and voting on chilis and cornbread. It got me through meeting dozens of people. It got me through small talk. It got me through people seeing my left finger and assuming I was betrothed in the typical way. It got me through talking about my careers. It got me through chatting with a couple I had met before, at my own birthday party a few months ago. They knew you. They send their condolences. It got me through a conversation that included friendly flirtation. It even got me through hearing and participating in laughter. Laughing hurts a lot, the moment the sound is emitted, daggers of pain pillage my chest. But it didn't get much easier. As the party settled and people snuggled into chairs and onto sofas, I watched the couples pair off.

I thought of how at a Superbowl Party at your cousin Hunter's house last year we had operated in that same fashion. We chatted with friends, we ate and drank a couple beers, and you introduced me to people. We split off: me, hanging with the girls, and you, making fun of the game while the other guys watched with fervor. Then, within a short amount of time, we made our way back to one another. We wrapped our arms around each other and found a spot on a couch, disinterested in the game but enjoying the company. We snuggled up and shared chips, salsa, and seven-layer dip. We sat, as a pair, and contributed to the party together, as our own team of doubles. We bounced jokes off each other, giggled together, and made eyes at one another. Eventually, I laid my head on your shoulder and whispered in your ear, "Let's go home." You looked at me, also bored of the game and ready to retire, "Yes. Lets," you responded. And we left, together. Just how we came. Happy and whole, as a pair. It was simply the way we moved together.

I miss the way we move together.