After countless years of dating unsuitable men, and not really looking for anyone that would (or could) challenge my belief that its really not worth the effort…this peculiar feeling snuck up on me, tripped me up and left me there, dazed and disorientated. I think they call it love or something.
I have fallen arse over tit & succumbed to the “We”. I’m finally in “That” relationship with “The” boy. The kind of relationship that makes absolute, perfect, lovely sense.
My boy makes me smile every day. He’s smart, funny, caring, affectionate…and looks awfully good in just his pants. He brings the papers and croissants to bed on Sunday mornings. He humours my ability to make 10,000 plans in a day and follow through with none of them, calls when he says he will and gets on well with my friends. I’ve known him forever and he just “gets” me. I couldn’t be happier.
There’s only one little problem with this picture of domestic bliss. Com-Pro-Mise.
The “C” word has never been a favourite of mine. I have many talents, but this isn’t one of them. I’ve spent all my adult life choosing what I want to watch on the telly, what I want for dinner, which side of the bed works best for me. I’m not particularly good at taking advice or being told what to do. I’m 30, and have always been fiercely independent…some may even say headstrong – with a little touch of feisty mixed in for good measure.
But now I have this fabulous man, who never puts a foot wrong…and I guess its probably best if I learn to give a little.
So…here I go. I’m putting my heart on the line and remembering its no longer all about me . His happiness has become hugely important….I’ve given up the remote at weekends so he can watch the football, I’ve agreed to watch the new Star Trek movie at the cinema (without moaning) and I even let him have the good side of the bed.
Now that, my friends, is progress. Luckily for me – he’s worth it.