This post contains affiliate links which means I may be compensated if you click a link or purchase a product. Read the full disclaimer here.
It’s hard to believe how much time has passed since I started and stopped internet dating. I began a naïve girl who had never been on a real date, became a jaded woman who thought she was happier single, and ended up a love sick school girl in a dream relationship. I just had another birthday, they won’t stop coming. As you get older, birthdays are less of an excuse to throw a party, and more like a chronic illness you don’t want anyone to know about. My big birthday adventure is going to include calling in sick to work, because I have a fever, and feel like I’m on a rocking boat.
After work Jake is planning to take me to tea for my birthday but I’m not sure I can get out of bed. If you include our months of phone calls and our time living together, it’s been two years. Two perfectly enjoyable years in which no one did anything crazy, cringe worthy, or illegal.
It’s hard to know what to say about a healthy relationship other than it feels good. I haven’t looked at my journal since I wrote it. It’s nice to put it behind me, like a tapeworm or a tumor. I just wanted the experience out of my brain and now that it’s out, I don’t want to think about it anymore. Someday it will all be funny, really funny. That day is not today. Jake has asked about it, and I’ve offered to let him read it, but he insisted he’s waiting for a final draft. I kept telling him I had no plans to finish it.
He nudged me awake,
“Hey birthday girl,” he said.
“Yes,” he said. “I made you breakfast. We have a big day today.”
“I’m sick, I can’t.”
“We have to go, it will make you feel better,” he insisted.
“I can’t, I really can’t.”
“Up, up, up. Take these for your fever and get in the shower. You’ll feel better in twenty minutes and we’re not missing our reservation,” he said.
“You’re being mildly insensitive. I’m the birthday girl. Reservations are for healthy people, not people who might have the Spanish Influenza.”
“I’m pretty sure you don’t have an extinct illness.”
“Pretty sure is not the same as completely sure,” I said while dragging myself to the shower.
Read the rest of the story here.