Whereupon I realize (for the 348th time) that I’m never leaving GTB
On Saturday, GTB and I ran around all day doing errands. Buy boxes. Check. Change oil in my car. Check. Pick up prescriptions. Check.
We also had to make a Target run. Now, left to my own devices (and a large inheritance from a distant aunt or something) I would be at Target at least once a week. It’s one of my happy places. So bright. So cheerful. So full of stuff I don’t really need but really really want. This trip, however, was for moving-related items. Stuff we’d need before I pack up in Seattle and after we unpack it all in Portland.
As we entered the shower curtain aisle, I was getting ready to say, “OK, what do we want our bathroom to look like?” (I’ve always believed that you decorate around the shower curtain, see.) But before I could even utter the sentence, GTB said those three little words that every girl who is about to navigate the murky waters of cohabitation with a boy longs to hear:
“I don’t care.”
I don’t remember if I hugged him or kissed him or told him how much my affection for him grew in that mere second, but every cell in my body was screaming, “Oh my god, you’ve found him. The holy grail of the heterosexual relationships: a man who I know is as anal and organized as I am about his house, but who will let me pick out shower curtains and bath mats and duvets.” I swooned. Seriously.
Of course, this was all negated about five minutes later when he decided it would be funny to purposefully go in the opposite direction of wherever I needed to go next. Made even more hilarious by the fact that he had the cart. But for that moment anyway, relationship perfection.