We met on a dating app. It’s been 3 years. And though we didn’t experience the “honeymoon phase”, EVER, I can’t help but feel a teensy weensy bit bad for Jase.
I could bore you with the backlog of our histories, but who the fuck has time for that? Long story short, when we met I was active and adventurous. We both were.
No one see’s illness coming. It swoops in gradually until one day it’s kicks you in the back of the knees and takes you down.
We had a good laugh together this morning when I pointed out how different our conversations are now compared to when we first met.
Me laying in bed: “Holy hell my armpits stink, time for a new t-shirt tonight before bed, I think I’ve worn this for like 2 weeks.
Him: “Let me smell. Yep, you reek, the right pit is stronger than the left. How weird.”
30 minutes later I filled him in on the 10 inch ripe banana of a turd I had.
In all fairness, last night before bed I read in the Epstein Barr book that you should document all your bowel movements and what constitutes as healthy.
My point, he didn’t sign up for this, but he’s still here and loving me with grace and sensitivity. Stinky armpits, banana bowels and all.
Our relationship looks different on the outside based on our lack of adventure. The inside is different too. It’s richer and deeper. We are evolving along with what we can not control. Together we look for ways to make each other laugh and make light of what is happening.
It’s not uncommon for me to be minding my own business and Jase to walk by with curly lettuce bursting from the fly of his pant’s. “Hey honey, I think I’m due for some man scaping.”