Done! Passport in, Oslo and Paris friends contacted for reunion. Dog sitters set for interviews (Pooch will pick the one she likes best).
And...love has been declared. On both sides. Well, his in a series of escalating emails from Costa Rica, where he and his brother have been doing some maintenance at his ridiculous house. (Which also has a "couple" in a "cottage" who do the rest.) Sheesh.
I got right up to the wire, then told him email "can't have everything" and I wanted to see his face when I told him how I feel. He knows. I know. And it's pretty amazing.
His key question so far has been: "What's to be done with two pianos?"
We'll start this week slowly taking steps and talking a ton and gradually figuring out how these two lives might merge. It's only been two months, but here we are. Maybe age escalates things. Something about limited time makes carpe diem easier than in the years when everything could be analysed into particles. For months.
I am in a state of gratitude, astonishment, etc. His only apprehension is fear of loss since he knows how awful grief can be. Mine is not as much that as fear of upheaval, leaving here one day not far away for the other side of the continent. But much as I love my wee house, cocoon, and all the familiarity I depend on, I have also faced the fact that as long as I live alone here, I'll never be truly happy. Sometimes for periods I will be, but not in a sustained way. Friends are dear and wonderful, but none are in my life so closely that even a phone call comes in every day. It's just not the way life is happening. For him, the world is jammed with important people to love, and adventure and work and all sorts of very full activity. I will need my retreats, but I think he's bringing me back to life.
He comes back Wednesday and I asked if instead of a restaurant evening, we could hang out in "jeans and socks." Because he's such a foodie he immediately plans the meal he'll make. And I said Cheerios would be fine. He said no, scallops. I do not care. This is one area we'll stumble over now and then. His near-obsession with food and my desire to focus more on nutrition than pleasure. Makes me boring but too much fixation on it makes me fat. (And he shows that some, himself.)
So of course he had to order me a collection of fabulous socks. I tactfully refused a string of pearls he brought me from S.F. It turned out to be a wonderful exchange, in which he exuberantly hoped I'd wear them with my own tiny ones (from my Dad) to the formal thing coming up (which I am SO not looking forward to). He mentioned it more than once. I had to wryly but unmistakably explain that I am a Card Carrying Feminist Who Never Lets Anyone Tell Me What to Wear. He not only got it, he loved it. He raved about my independence and honesty.
Knock me over with a feather.
xxoo
Hops
PS - As though to compensate for the pearls thing, I told him I hate my socks, I will greedily accept all the socks he wants to buy me, and he went ridiculous. Raved about Bombas and ordered me a set and backordered all the bright colors. This is FUN! Then he wrote me a whole other thing about loving that I am happier with a gift of socks than pearls. Whew.
PPS - Why I am weird about pearls: As lovely and lustrous as they are, to me they are a reminder of many oppressive dictates about "ladies" as I grew up. I can't escape that association and don't want to. Coco Chanel can go sit on a tack, I just can't do pearls. So he proposed that we make an excursion to a nearby larger city where I get to pick out something that I really do like, and I said sure! (I think something that doesn't cost hundreds and maybe from the art museum's shop.)