There are several reasons why keeping up this blog has been such a struggle. One major factor is my new job. I was able to do most of my blogging at my last job, but that's not really possible now. The bigger, shinier paycheck means more responsibilities and way less downtime. Plus, my computer screen faces a high traffic area and it wouldn't be good for one of my bosses to see me lingering on a site that prominently displays "cock" in its title.
The other main reason for my absence is J.
In some ways, I feel like I've been absent from more than this blog, but the real world, too. I have told J more than once that I feel like I'm on vacation when I'm with him. We have this ability to create our own microcosmos when we're together: it's me, it's J, and the rest of existence is banished to the periphery. Whether on a beach or dancefloor, in a grocery store or casino, life plays out for us like a movie and we walk among its scenery.
I've been so busy being happy that I have hardly noticed the time go by, except in weekly increments. Or in weekends, which J and I spend almost exclusively together (he is napping right now), which pass shockingly quickly, crammed with social and familial obligations, but also hours that belong only to us.
It's been a dramatic change, going from the life I had before J to the life I have now. My days are different because of the shift in employment and my nights are different because I am no longer single. It's been tough staying in touch with friends. Polly said I fell off the radar a bit when I was in my last relationship. I know I've done that to an extent again, but I've been making a concerted effort not to drift away from the people who are my second family: Willow and Polly and (former) Coworker Chris and Podcast Penny and all the others. Not to mention my alone time; there's less of that, too.
Not that I'm complaining. Merely adjusting. I love inhabiting the world that J and I created for ourselves. I don't want anything to mar this world, which is why part of me is at a loss as to what to write about. I could write about how J has only ever dated thin girls and how I worry that if I don't keep off the fifty (yes, fifty) pounds I have lost in the last seven months, he'll leave me (though he is beyond supportive of my fitness goals). I could write about our magical (to the point of spooky) telepathic connection, about the way we fit the way I have never fit with anybody before. I could write about how nerve-wracking it was meeting each others' families. I could write about the positive-adjective-defying sex. I could write about how I feel like I've waited my whole life for him, and it was worth the wait. How he constantly makes me laugh, impresses me with his resourcefulness, and takes my breath away with his knockout combination of generosity, sensitivity, and raw masculinity. I could write about how I've reached a point where not having him in my life would be inconceivably tragic.
There are endless lists of things we have done (cooked together, taken walks in Central Park, gone away for the weekend) and things we haven't done (had our first fight, said the L word, anal). Part of me wants to chronicle every special minute of it. Another part of me wants to fully immerse myself in this wonderous time of my life, this falling in glorious love, and forego the need to capture it in words.
Time: it moves at light speeds, but I can't help the foolish notion that J and I have so much of it. Yet it still slips away, another hour, another day, another week. I blinked and found a month had passed that J and I were together. One of the happiest months of my life.