Confirmation

So Bateman and I finally had The Talk. And The Talk was exactly what I wanted to hear.

It started with a single question: “Do you see a future for us?”

That’s the question I’ve been asking for the past year and a half. I was asking my journal, my friends, my heart, my head – silently willing Bateman to give me an answer – but until two days ago, I could never bring myself to ask him point-blank what the hell he was thinking. Even when I did try to raise the subject, it was always couched in an accusation: you never say I-love-you, you don’t want to move in together.

But last Friday I asked Bateman those very words. And he said:

“I see a very long future for us.”

The Future? Confirmed.

And The Future, it seems, is right around the corner. All things being equal, we’ll almost certainly move in together in May, he said. Let me repeat: Move in together.

I try to tell myself that nothing’s changed. He obviously decided these things long before I brought it up on Friday. He was obviously already thinking them before I had the courage to broach the subject. But it’s still so weird to me. So newly weird. Nothing changed – but at the same time everything’s changed because now I know. Like I said, it’s confirmed.

Does it make things easier on me? All my anxieties? Well, yes and no. First we have to get through his intern year. This afternoon he showed me how to check the intern calendar at his hospital. So I can track his work schedule, just like I used to track his flights back to medical school. Keep tabs on him. But when I saw his name and his call schedule on the screen, all I felt was the same heaviness in my throat – that feeling of I can’t talk because if I talk I’ll cry and I don’t want you to see me cry – that I used to get before every goodbye. And as much as he tries to tell me that it’s not that bad – well, what can I say. I just plain hate goodbyes. Not when I’ve had to go through so many in such a short period of time.

But at least I know now. I know.

First the Hours, Now This

I was reading this article in New York magazine yesterday where five anonymous doctors dish about the ins and outs of medical care. The quote that really unsettled me was when the virus guy said that killing patients makes doctors feel powerful. That it feeds into their God complex.

Last night — tipsy after a baseball game — I asked my sweet, goofy, easygoing boyfriend whether he was looking forward to being a murderer. It was a morbid line of questioning, but I was feeling morbid. “Yeah, I can’t wait to start killing people,” he said with vicious sarcasm. “That’s why I went into medicine.”

Finally I went into the kitchen, packed my lunch, and composed myself. I turned off the lights, got into bed with him, and buried my head in his chest. And I said, “Just don’t change, ok? I don’t want you to change. I like you 100 percent the way you are.”

“If I change, they’ve won,” Bateman said. “That’s how I look at it. If I change, they’ve won.”

Then he told me not to take anymore medical advice from anonymous doctors in New York magazine. He’s probably right.

The Little Things

I started my new job today. The company is British, which might explain why the “kitchen” is stocked with nothing but coffee and beer and there’s a foosball table in the break room. Or maybe the company is just quirky that way.

It’s too early to tell whether I like the job or not – I mean, I plan on liking it, but first days are always exhausting. Also, as proof of how hard it is to please me: even though I complained complained complained about boredom at my last job – and wanted to work long, important hours – now that I’m faced with long hours, I’m already sad about losing that extra time to go running in the park after work. Of course, I can still go running on the weekend – and I’d rather work long hours doing something I enjoy than get out at 5 p.m. on the dot feeling like I didn’t accomplish anything meaningful. And, really, if you want to get ahead in this world, you gotta put in the hours. So it goes.

Here’s something I also hear a lot: working long hours is good when your boyfriend is a first-year resident. This has been one of my ongoing insecurities (he’ll never have time for me!) and Bateman has been various shades of sympathetic and dismissive. “Goodbye, my love, I’ll miss you,” he mocked one morning last week, throwing his arms around my neck as we walked to the train. I rolled my eyes. Then he got serious. “This is not going to work if you resent me right off the bat.” (Then back to mocking, “Hey, now that you’re an important journalist, you’re going to be traveling all over the country – maybe even the world – WITHOUT ME.”)

The thing is, I don’t resent him – but I do resent feeling like a villain for wanting to spend time with my boyfriend. Also while he’s doing his best to convince me that it’s not as bad as it seems and everything will be a-ok! – well, all I really want to know is that he’s going to miss me too. That simple.

Possibilities

How does someone know if the relationship she’s in is destined for Happily Ever After? Does she Just Know? Is there some Grand Moment or Eye-Opening Realization? Or is it something that sort of sneaks up on you and surprises you?

A few months ago, Bateman and I were driving back to his place after drinking with his friends. I was in a good mood, babbling about how wonderful it would be — finally, finally, after 18 loooong months — to put this long distance hell behind us. And I was counting: four more weeks till my next visit, six more weeks till graduation, then you move home, and then we get to be together forever and ever and ever!

And he said, all serious-like, “Possibly.” Possibly! What does possibly possibly mean in that context?!

For the record, I was NOT talking about Forever as in Happily Ever After. Marriage and kids and whatnot because I’m not even sure I WANT that. I was just being silly. Hyperbolic. I thought it was fairly obvious that forever just meant, you know, indefinitely. For as long as we want. Without 450 miles as a roadblock in our relationship. (Also, I was not 100% sober.) And he said … possibly. And did he mean it as a good-possibly, as in, if all goes well, yes, it’s on the table? Or, bad-possibly, as in, there’s no way I want to have this discussion with you, but I’m about to get laid so I might as well be diplomatic about it? He did NOT say it flirtatiously. It was much more matter of fact. Like I had said something that deserved to be taken at face-value.

Most likely he said it because I caught him off-guard and made him uncomfortable. Or — in the same vein — he didn’t mean ANYTHING by it, and I’m searching for Big Clues in one little word.

I’m thinking about these things as my newly minted doctor begins residency later this month. It’s starting to sink in that those 80 to 100 hour work weeks are actually going to happen. That he’s going to miss my birthday, and holidays, and who knows, maybe even Super Bowl Sunday. Not to mention countless Saturdays when we could be at the beach. Maybe I’m being selfish. I signed up to date this person, knowing full well what I was getting into. But maybe I’d feel better about things if I had more certainty, if I knew I was waiting for something that was a little less theoretical, a little more than “possible.”

A Rant About Skiing (I Kid You Not)

If there’s one thing you should know about me (or, more specifically, my relationship) it’s that I hate skiing. And my boyfriend has been skiing since he was three. And his family is fanatically zealous in their love of skiing. And his sister went so far as to tell me I couldn’t marry her brother unless I promised to sign up our future children in ski school as soon as they’re old enough. “We’re a skiing family,” she told me. I could not make this up. I am STILL indignent. And even if a) I actually marry Bateman (and, god, are we far from that) and b) I have children with him and c) they learn how to ski — they are never allowed to ski with their aunt. There, I said it. She totally deserves it too.

Anyway, I didn’t always hate skiing. I really wanted to like it. When I found out my birthday present from Bateman was a ski trip, I wanted to be excited. Believe me, I did.

The thing about skiing, though, is that it’s hard to learn. And painful — you’re almost guaranteed to get injured. And I was miserable the entire trip (and when I say “miserable,” I might as well go ahead and admit that I spent most of the day trying unsuccessfully not to cry and the rest of it giving Bateman the silent treatment.) I also know now that I was silly to think I could ever catch up to him in expertise. The best I can hope for is to maybe one day master the bunny slopes. And I still wouldn’t be skiing WITH him — he’ll always be much more advanced.

The night before Bateman and I drove up to the slopes, we went out for sushi. He looked at me with this devilish grin and said, “You don’t HAVE to like this, but it’s better if you do.” He laughed. “You don’t have to like this thing I plan vacations around.” And part of me was tickled because he sees me taking future vacations with him. And part of me felt a sort of cold foreboding.

But back to the trip. I hated it. It was not fun. It left a huge welt on my knee. I was not coordinated and I struggled to learn how to stop and slow down and I felt downright abandoned when he left me at ski school (“adults” 10 and over) for an hour and a half to ski by himself. An hour and a half of pure torture. I scowled and cried my way through it. I was thisclose to being a ski school dropout. I was surely the sulkiest, most miserable student the instructor ever had.

Bateman got defensive later that day when I decided to be nice to him again and admit that I was crying because I felt so much pressure to like skiing. He told me that his comment the night before was “100% kidding,” even though I still don’t believe him. I said that it wasn’t like he twisted my arm — not that kind of pressure — but it’s the understanding that skiing is such a huge part of his life. I think he finally began to understand what I meant when his sister greeted me with a “so skiing?!” with a two-thumbs-up gesture. And offered to let me practice standing around in her ski equipment and excitedly talked up their condo in Vail — a really sweet sentiment, but with the subtext that skiing is something I SHOULD like. And Bateman gently told her not to “pressure” me, using my words. (And then, two months later, when he was out of earshot, she threatened me. With my own children!)

It’s still unsettled. I’m afraid we’ll go through this every winter; he’ll leave me behind while he skis, sometimes in other states. And in a relationship where we’re already so pressed for time together (read: dating a resident), it’s just one more thing to drive a wedge between us.

I’m Back

It’s been a crazy month. I was offered a new job (right here in New York, whatdaya know) — and I’m taking it — and right after that happened, I boarded a plane with Bateman to spend two weeks in Lisbon, Barcelona, and Madrid. Anyway, I plan to be good about this blogging thing now. Promise. Swear. Pinky-swear. Forgive me?

…

Phew.

I’ve been trying to recap Europe (to my coworkers, to my friends, to my family), with little success. How do I describe Spain and Portugal? Europe was … Europe was …

Well, Europe was gorgeous city views, winding cobblestone streets, and outdoor sidewalk cafes.

Europe was old monasteries, cathedrals, and defensive towers. Europe was modern apartment buildings, Gaudi architecture, and a beach(!) in downtown Barcelona.

Europe was days and days of sunshine and one big downpour in Lisbon.

Europe was standing on the grounds of an old castle on a hill while peacocks (peacocks!) chased each other nearby.

Europe was a Michelin-star restaurant, a tapas bar crawl, and getting addicted to tortilla espanola (otherwise known as the Best Food Ever Invented.)

Europe was hot sex in the shower.

Europe was Bateman holding me in bed on one of our last nights, whispering, “You’re the best, you know that? When someone asks you where you rank, you tell them, ‘I’m the best.’” (“You’re the best,” incidentally, were the three words he whispered before his first unprompted “I love you” last month.)

Europe was laughing during landing — not worrying about the plane crashing.

Europe was lots of wine. LOTS of wine. And deciding there is no place better to drink than on top of something. With a view.

Europe was a sign in our hotel room (on the safe) that said, “Management is not responsible for the eventual robbery in your room.”

Europe was our flight getting cancelled in the shady Lisbon airport and no way to get out of the country that day without dropping $522. Europe was both of us agreeing at the same instant that it was worth the money.

Europe was Turkish baths and our first massages.

Europe was accidentally crashing a swanky rooftop party for Hpnotiq liquor and mingling with the young, hip, and beautiful.

Europe was seeing my new employer on news stands EVERYWHERE. Without, of course, having to worry about work.

… So of course I’m bummed about having to come back. Who wouldn’t be? I already had my first Bateman-is-mine-ALL-MINE freak-out (in my head, privately, thank god) when he went to the beach with his friends the next day (without me, of course, wah, wah, wah, blah, blah, blah.) (And was relieved to find out the next day that I’m actually not crazy, just hormonal.) But the point holds. I’m in a funk. Call it the post-vacation blues.

Separately, I had my goodbye lunch today, and you know how much I now feel like doing work? Yeah, exactly. Goooodbye to me.