In what was apparently an oversight on the part of Naked City Magazine, my final column did not make it into the magazine. While I don’t understand how a monthly publication of roughly 50 pages can misplace a column and not realize it’s missing before going to press, I’m trying to not: a) be continually pissed (although that’s difficult), b) cry because it was sort of the “end of the beginning” to the story of me and Aaron and I really wanted to have a copy as a keepsake, c) feel like it’s letting down the readers who have faithfully picked up a copy around town and read the column month after month.
I was asked to stop writing it a few weeks ago because the content wasn’t as relevant now that I’m in a relationship and I agreed. It wasn’t about single girl adventures any longer. But I wanted the final column to be a goodbye and now I don’t get that opportunity (in print anyway).
So, because it won’t ever make it into the magazine, I’m publishing my final column here:
In one of my favorite episodes of Sex and the City, Carrie’s boyfriend, Aidan, moves into her tiny apartment. His stuff is everywhere and his dog eats her shoes and he asks a trillion questions every time she walks into a room. Eventually Carrie has a tiny breakdown and escapes to Starbucks for some alone time with her laptop.
This very well could have been a snapshot of my own life during the past few weeks since Mr. 8 moved in. Substitute Wichita for New York City, my house for Carrie’s apartment, Mr. 8’s cat for Aidan’s dog and El Rodeo and BOGO margaritas for Starbucks and the laptop (sometimes booze solves problems better than technology).
As I quickly learned, living with your significant other means the gloves are off. The jig is up. Your quirks and faults are now on display 24/7. It didn’t take long for Mr. 8 to realize I’m a control freak. I believe the dishwasher should be loaded as efficiently as possible. Lights should be turned off when you leave a room. Little remnants of toothpaste should be scrubbed from the bottom of the bathroom sink after brushing. And under no circumstances should you ever put A LOAD OF WET CLOTHES INTO THE DRYER AND TURN IT ON WITHOUT TAKING OUT THE DRY CLOTHES FIRST.
Look, I’m far from perfect. I use approximately seventeen dishes and utensils while cooking and make a giant mess. I belch and curse like a sailor. I leave leftovers in the fridge until they are growing nine different kinds of mold. I’m melodramatic. I snore (though it’s a cute, ladylike snore, I swear). I watch bad reality TV.
Mr. 8 has his own idiosyncrasies. He eats like he’s nine years old - HandiSnacks, Pop Tarts, shelf-stable pudding cups, grilled cheese, PB&J and sugary breakfast cereal, all washed down with a tall glass of Kool-Aid. He has an odd obsession with shower heads. He judges his need to bathe based on whether or not he perspired within the past 24 hours. He owns five different deodorants. He non-ironically watches Cops.
But I love him.
When I pitched the idea of a dating column to Naked City earlier this year, I never would have guessed that six columns and one dating experiment later, I would find myself living with the guy who very well could be (gulp) The One. Our story is really just beginning, but this is the last you’ll read of it here. It’s time to pass the torch to the next single girl who wants to chronicle her dating adventures in the Air Capital.
I do have one piece of advice for her – go on as many dates as possible in 30 days. It works.
Thanks to everyone who followed along over the past six months. I am confident there will be many more chapters to come. None of which will appear in print. ;)
