How I fell, part 8
Posted by thebitterlemon
A few weeks later, D arrived at my apartment one night and made an interesting comment.
“You know, staying at your place every night is really KILLING my hygiene.”
Oh? The standard routine had been that he came over after work (which was usually late at night) and slept until it was time to get ready for his next shift.
He would throw on the same boxers and undershirt, put on a pair of pants and a shirt fresh from the cleaners and head to work.
“I normally like to put on a clean shirt and boxers when I get home from work, you know?” he said.
I asked him if he wanted a drawer.
“Why don’t you bring some things over?” I asked.
He said he just always forgot.
I went into my bathroom and told him I had a toothbrush for him, which he appreciated. The next morning, however, I took a peek at his undershirt size and the number on his pants. I made a mental note, and that was that.
A few days later, I took a rather fun adventure to Walmart.
What resulted was a shopping cart full of things any guy could ask for in terms of showering/prepping for work: face wash, razors, body wash, shampoo/conditioner, Chapstick, a comb, deodorant, aftershave, and mouthwash… I even got a “Man tool” which was a manly loofah that I didn’t even know existed.
Although it sounds like I really knew what I was doing, looking for all of these items was mind-blowing. I had no idea all of the options men had out there! I cannot even describe to you the horror that was on my face when I entered the razor aisle… I didn’t know what razor to get and then I stood there for a solid 10 minutes wondering if he used shaving cream or not. I assumed not, and I was indeed right, he uses hot water.
Taking it one step further, I also purchased a pack of undershirts, boxers, and socks. And then I put it all together in a manly black basket on my bathroom counter.
Yeah. I’m awesome. Or am I? Because in the 24 hours that the basket sat there before he saw it, I was nervous as shit. I was worried he would see it and feel smothered or think I was moving too fast and then he would bolt and then I’d be left with a manly basket of crap.
Instead, he loved it. Because I’m not dating the men of my past.
He showered, got ready, and went to work in his new undergarments, and texted me saying it was a very comfortable shirt, and the socks were “amazing.”
“You did very good; I love my basket,” he said.
He was perplexed on how I got the correct sizes though. And I told him I just looked at his tags… he then concluded that I was a ninja and that my sneaky ways needed to be further reviewed.
Being the great girlfriend that I am, I washed the clothes (including the ones he left), folded them, and stacked them in their very own spot, the boyfriend drawer.
I’ve never given a guy a drawer or anything close. When I sent D the picture, he replied, “Major girlfriend points.”
I was on a roll, and D decided it was time to meet his parents.
I absolutely wanted to meet them, it was just that I’d never had a boyfriend want me to meet his family. When I dated Matt, I had to present him with an ultimatum to meet his parents. I finally did, but never saw them again.
The two boyfriends I had before that, I didn’t meet their families. The guy I dated before that, my first love, I met his parents but I think it was by default since we had been friends for years before we dated. To make it even better, his parents hated me, and I think that weighed heavily on him.
So, I was shocked.
Our original plan for Easter was casual, join a friend of D’s for dinner. I was happy and a little nervous just to meet this friend, but looking forward to it. Then on the Tuesday before Easter, D texts me this:
D: Church on Sunday.
ME: What about it?
D: You are going.
D: Well you don’t have to…
ME: I am happy to go, just tell me when and where.
D: We need to be there at 9:45, I was thinking I’ll stay at your place Saturday night and we can go together.
ME: Sounds good.
D: good, they are excited.
ME: Who is “they”?
When we hung out later that night, I asked D what kind of church it was. Baptist.
Yeah, just sit on that for a moment.
Considering I’m a (barely) functioning alcoholic, have committed adultery, and have had plenty of premarital sex (can you call it that when marriage was never in the picture?), I was imagining this lovely church going up in flames upon my entrance on Easter Sunday.
Then, I asked him, “Is it just church, or…” and he quickly told me no, we would be going to his parents’ for lunch afterward. Then, he dropped one final bomb on me—I’d be meeting his brothers, too, and their families.
After picking out a dress for church, I was ready to roll come Sunday morning (I didn’t drink much Saturday night and went to bed early so I’d be bright-eyed).
We drove to church, which was packed of course, and met his parents and one of his brothers.
Anyway, we go into the church and it’s a concert. No, seriously. There was a singer and a microphone and the lights were off, minus colorful spotlights on the stage. There was a drum set and guitar players and flat screens with the words on them, because the songs they were singing were original songs about Jesus, not the ones we all know.
While I’d never seen anything quite like this at a church, I was thankful that it wasn’t quiet and awkward, complete with Bible verse readings. We were sitting in metal folding chairs in the very back row, an usher had guided us to our seats, and moved us twice already. A third time he came over, saying we needed to move one more time.
“I’m so, so sorry,” he said. “It’s just that, they’re bringing a casket in, and it’s going to be a tight squeeze.”
A casket? I started to get sweaty.
They brought the casket in (it had deer antlers on it) to represent a modern-day tomb. When the pastor opened the casket, it was lined with camouflage. Ha.
After making it through the service, we had a short break from the parents during the drive to their house…
TO BE CONTINUED…
Posted on August 15, 2013, in The Squeeze and tagged alcoholic, authors, dating, drinking, family, heartbreak, Holly A. Phillips, How to Make Lemonade, love, relationships, The Bitter Lemon, twenty-something. Bookmark the permalink. 3 Comments.