Ode to the BF

The BF and I celebrated our fifth anniversary together as a couple in January. But we've known each other as friends for almost 15 years now. Which means that we both knew what we were getting into before we considered taking our relationship in a new direction.

For most of my life I have been the "perpetually single" friend in my group. I was really good at being single; I liked coming home to silence after a long day of listening to so many different voices at the salon. I liked not having to consider someone else's needs, feelings, or schedule when making appointments — no one to take into consideration except myself and my client.

My life was filled with Zen-like simplicity and the utter freedom to indulge my id at will.

And then I got this boyfriend.

You could seriously make a romantic comedy out of my life.

In past relationships, there have been a couple of motifs that have proved problematic: I don't do mornings ... and I do late nights.

So when the BF and I realized that a romantic relationship was eminent, it was imperative that I remind him of these things and that I was — after all — 35 at the time and quite content with the life I had settled into. I would not be changing.

When I asked him what he was going to do when I worked till all hours of the night, he replied that he was going to "grow fat and happy on the couch” waiting for me to come home.

Mmmmm hmmmmm.

Welcome to tax season, hun.

My clientele consists of a handful of CPAs and licensed tax preparers — when it's tax season for them, it's tax season for me too! Not to mention the hoards of other people who turn out to be desperate for nail appointments after 5 p.m. I am supposed to take my last client at 6:30 or 7 p.m. so that I'm home around 8:00. I won't be home before 10 p.m. any day this week. This happens every year around this time — spring fever, I think (yes, while many of my friends around the country are still encased in ice, the fruit orchards are in bloom here!).

The BF is not growing fat and happy waiting for me to get home at night; I think he wanders from room to room with my dog, anxiously looking out windows and whining just a little. But he's happy — if tired — to see me when I come through the door at night and he hasn't been grumpy or calling me at work this year to ask me when I'm coming home every night and reminding me that I work "too late."

Maybe it really is True Love. Anyone who can adjust to my workaholic schedule has to be a keeper.

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