I’m a routine person. Every date is properly recorded into my monogrammed planner in the corresponding color for the category it belongs, I keep exactly $100.00 in my checking account at all times, all excess is moved directly over into savings, and my binder from school contained every syllabus, notes from classes as well as a calendar with a compilation of due dates. I enjoy organization. I enjoy coordination. I enjoy my norm.
Unfortunately my personal cookie cutter extends even to my choices in men. Blue/green eyes, minimum height of 5 feet 9 inches, sandy blond hair never grown beyond his collar typically styled in a well-maintained Chuck Bass-like comb over (high school lovers were a bit more of a Justin Beiber look…shudder), an assortment of solid color button ups, nice shoes, and shorts that are a minimum of two inches above his knees. My romantic choices are typically business fellows of an established university, maintaining a minimum of a 3.6. They come from a sweet wholesome family and his mother and I are on a first name basis.
But when my world came crashing in around me (excuse the mellow-dramatic, pre-teen saying) and I was forced to leave my dream university, give up my position on the Spirit Squad I had trained for months to be a part of, was dumped by my boyfriend whom was so far in the one percent it was sickening and moved back to my Podunk, hell-raising, sweet tea drinking home town I realized that I don’t particularly want a Mr. Right at the moment. Lucky for me, I quickly ran into my Mr. Right Now.
His almost shoulder length hair that is usually tucked back into a straw cowboy hat frames our first kiss and tickles my cheek, his calloused finger tips, worn from hours of guitar playing, are grazing my neck as he wraps his hands up in my perfectly messy waves. His unshaved beard scratches my neck as his kisses trail further down and I am wrapped up in arms that, as Luke Bryan would say have muscles “you can only get from a farm.” His room is littered with guitar picks, lighters, belt buckles and boots. His roommates are passed out on the couch when I come in, there’s a border collie puppy forever “ruining the moment” and I do not dare sit on the toilet seat at this southern bachelor pad.
My prim and proper self is internally screaming at me for coming over so late at night knowing that this was not going to turn into anything good. “His mind is not thinking any further in the future than tomorrow morning”, “do y’alls futures align”, “what happens when you go back to school”, “do you really believe this has any potential”. While I usually heed to her every word, I really don’t give a rat’s ass at this point.
While this kid may not fit into my cookie cutter world no matter how hard I try to force him to take mold, he might possibly be exactly what I need at the moment. Someone to force me to let my hair down and realize this season of struggle is only as bad as I choose to make it. Let me clarify, this isn’t the friends with benefits kind of junk you see in Bridesmaid’s but merely two grown adults not looking for a relationship who enjoy snuggling, venting about their week and well, for a short portion of their day, not feeling entirely alone. While sneaking out in the morning careful to not wake the sleeping beauties on the couch and trying to navigate my way down caliche back roads in the dark isn’t always my ideal of fun, I’m embracing every second of it.
Now, in this short spell of time I am going to be spending at home, I have a warm embrace when I’m lonely but don’t have to add balancing a relationship to a plate already heavy with work, networking and applying for internship. Is my uptight, slightly snooty ego too pleased? Not particularly, but forget her. She’s kind of a bitch anyways.