Composting

Yes, you probably read that right. That's the only way I can think of to describe where I've been all year. Turning the pile, waiting for a bright red tulip to shoot up through the bullshit that I keep piling on just outside the door.

It hasn't been bad, mostly. It's been mostly good. It's just so damn much work. I'm not adjusting to moving in with someone, that's not a problem. Nope. What we're doing is different, scarier, more invested, and ultimately more rewarding. Thus more work. We're building a marriage. Which, of course, doesn't wait to start until September when the vows are said. That work starts every moment we are together.

And it's work.

I will never deny that it's worth it. Don't get me wrong. I am just having some trouble adjusting to the fact that building a marriage includes great quantities of garlic smashed potatoes stuffed straight into the refrigerator in their mixing bowl and the mixer left on the counter until I get tired of seeing it. That seems so much less fundamentally romantic than building love and trust and a foundation that our children can grow up in.

It's also yardwork, and remembering that one of us cannot go go go until after 9:00 at night without eating some sort of supper and then still be expected to function at work the next day. Not mentioning any names, of course.

8:30 on a Sunday morning: tea and a few doughnuts, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I'm actually caught up on sleep. Considering how much of it I've done in the past 36 hours, I should be alarmed if I weren't. And of course it's cloudy and rainy today. I didn't exactly want to spend six hours in the car yesterday, being lost and schlepping around doing the cleanup from yardwork. But at least I won't miss it while I'm in the theatre.

Because Robin's film is finally out.

Why am I so frustrated? Is it the grey gloom? The fact that after all our exhaustion the house is still a goddamn mess? And always will be? Always so much to do.

Le sigh.