misfitmanor's Journal

25 October
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  • misfitmanor@livejournal.com
This is the combined household account for the writing / domestic partnership of karmasoup and mamas_minion; partners in creative endeavors, united in making a home together, and companions in life. We have been a part of the same social circle for about 5 years. He had a crush on me from the moment that we met at a friend's party, but I didn't want to encourage him, because he wasn't “my type." Too shy, too reserved, too demure, I thought.

But just over 2 years ago, we both decided to share living space, because each of us had been temporarily staying with roommates who were looking to make changes in their household circumstances. Splitting costs between us would be more economical for both of us, and allow us to live in a nicer space than if we each lived alone. So we began to look, together, for a suitable location to next call home. During that process, we realized we had a lot in common, and I had to admit I really enjoyed his company on a casual basis. I became comfortable thinking of him as a very good friend. He moved up fairly quickly through the social ranks of my perspective, and, in less time than I even had the presence of mind to effectively adjust to, I soon found I couldn't imagine a day of my life without him in it.

When I introduced him to my family, they were all nuts about him, and pretty much adopted him immediately. I'd been in a few relationships that were not good for my mental health and emotional well-being, so my folks were beside themselves to see someone at my side who was not only good TO me, but even FOR me. My Mom, ever the meddling sort, kept dropping hints that we should be together. She often made note of how much like my Dad he is, and how much he has in common with 3 of my 5 brothers. I had to explain to her — multiple times — that we were not involved, only roommates.

When asked about that, I’ve since been told, he would only admit that he wanted more for us, but that he could be patient. He'd been married once before, and I never have, but I've turned down 9 marriage proposals. Marriage wasn't even on the radar for me when we started cohabitating, and, at that point in my life, I had always imagined that it probably never would be.

But we made a nice home together. We shared the same taste in color, in scheme, in theme, and style. The division of labor between us fell into a natural rhythm that fit for both of us. He’d jokingly adopted the name “Minion” for himself, imagining that’s what the animals in our house would call him if they could speak, and it became my pet name for him, too. When I’d ask him for anything, “Minion, would you…?,” his response was always the same… “Yes, Ma’am,” he’d nod, with just a touch of a Southern drawl. He’d say it with such a twinkle and a smile, showing those adorable dimples, that it was impossible not to blush. We enjoyed spending time together, entertaining friends and family, or even when it was just the two of us, and we didn’t feel like bothering to leave the house. We found we considered one another good company. It was easy for each of us to be ourselves with one another. We were comfortable, and content.

Then September turned into October again, kicking off autumn in St. Paul, my favorite season of the year. We’d been living together at that point for just over 12 months, and heading into the holiday season for the second time around caused me to assess the time we’d spent together up to that point. I realized, as we shared together our 2nd Halloween, our 2nd Thanksgiving, our 2nd Christmas, just as easily, as smoothly, as naturally, as comfortably, and as beautifully as the year before, that THIS was our lives. And, I realized, too, that I liked it. This could ALWAYS be our lives, and that would be good enough for me. I don’t know if his mind was working the same way, but shortly after New Year’s, he decided to make that a formality, and asked me to spend the rest of my life with him.

One Friday morning in mid-January, I woke up early, and, not wanting my movement on the upstairs level to disturb his rest where he slept downstairs, I stayed in bed and turned on the TV, keeping the volume low, until he came up a few hours later. When he realized I’d been awake for several hours, not moving because I didn’t want to wake him, he felt bad, and imagined I must be hungry, so he offered to make me breakfast in bed. I agreed, but suggested he make it quick, since I was hoping to watch one of our favorite shows before we both went to work. (We work nights.) Twenty minutes went by, and then 25, and after that, I realized this was apparently not a quick breakfast. I called to him in the kitchen, and he reported back that he was almost done, it would be coming up shortly. He’s a great cook, but I’d been expecting cereal, or oatmeal, in 5 minutes or so.

When he came in, he brought pancakes. He gave me a tray with a short stack, and on the top of it, there was one pancake that seemed a bit mangled. Trying not to laugh, I noted to him, smiling, “Looks like this one has a hole in it.” He nodded, and came back with, “Yeah, kind of looks like a ring, doesn’t it?” As I was trying, a bit fuzzy headed at the thought, to sort out the significance of my pancake being shaped like a ring, he took my hand in his, and asked me. I don’t even think I answered him, I just cried, and threw myself on him. (I’m pretty sure he took that for yes.)

As it turned out, “my type” wasn’t really “my type” at all. There was a time when I couldn’t have imagined life without the frenzy of a new adventure around every corner, and a constant frantic pace. But if I had ever slowed down long enough to breathe for a moment, I’d have realized, that was never what I truly wanted. The stillness, the quiet, the peace of our existence, this is what I have sighed for. This is what his love has given me. And it is enough for both of us.

On October 25th, we were married under an old oak tree outside the balcony of an 18th century country farmhouse, just 200 yards from the back drop of the Mississippi River. We had a fairytale themed wedding; I was his Princess Bride, and he was my Dread Pirate Captain. We may not be expecting “Happily Ever After,” but we are looking forward to our future together, in our castle of bliss, which we, the consummate nerd couple, have aptly nicknamed, “Misfit Manor.”

And the rest, as they say, is history.