Only a few days have passed since Jenny and I knocked the long distance out of our relationship. Since then, she has been attempting the impossible: domesticating a grown man.
To her credit, she hasn’t had a nervous breakdown. I can only imagine the difficulties she deals with while trying to shun almost 30 years of caveman habits. I’m not frat boy messy. I’m not even the kind of unclean terminally ill people get when they just stop caring if they missed the toilet and hit their kitchen table with urine. I’m more, as she might put it, a man.
Jenny and I had a conversation about the differences between us. She is meticulously organized whereas my life is a structured mess. Because of this difference I’m not sure we always notice each other’s strengths.
For instance, my baseball cards are all in alphabetical order. Jenny wouldn’t notice or care about this unless I bragged. This, as you can imagine, is something I failed to humble myself about because this was a project successfully completed during my teen years. Jenny sees things from woman’s perspective. She’d probably organize the cards in a more visually pleasing way like brand, year, or ethnicity of player. My man’s mind stays stuck on alphabetizing. Can you blame me? My gender is the simple one. Lynyrd Skynyrd’s song Simple Man is about all of us and not just the autistic.
As alike as we are, with a similar value system, plenty about Jenny and I is different. I improvise on the fly like an illegitimate love child of Macgyver while Jenny plans like she’s about to build something more significant than a way to get out of this episode’s trap.
Still, we’re two bees in a blog who can agree on one aspect of organizing: we belong together.