Blogging the Relationship (3)

The LT (in which LT = Lieutenant in the US Navy, in case you were curious) is tough.

Very tough. The boy served on a SUBMARINE in IRAQ, for Chrissakes. With a Commanding Officer who used to throw things at him. He's tougher than beef jerky that's been left outside in Phoenix for a year and then run over by a fleet of semis. He's that tough.

For example, the evening of the day of his LASIK surgery, his contact fell out for the first time. (Yes, you read that right, it fell out for THE FIRST TIME OF MANY TIMES that weekend.) It is maybe five hours after his surgery. His corneas were just scrubbed off with a rotating brush. He no longer HAS corneas, which is why he has contact lenses--they're there to replace the corneas until they grow back. Now one contact lens has fallen out. When this happens, you're supposed to go right into the hospital, because having your entire eyeball exposed to air is incredibly drying and painful, plus your cornea won't heal as fast because your entire eyeball is focused (ha!) on trying not to convulse and can't put all its energy towards healing, instead.

The problem is, it was 9 at night, and we had been drinking. Heavily. (With him on percocet, whoops!) Neither of could possibly drive anywhere. We had to get the contact back in. We had been drinking, maybe I mentioned that, and we had been cooking. WITH CHILI POWDER. And now I have to put MY FINGERS IN HIS EYE. "I'm all right, sweetie," he kept saying, as I stuck my drunk, clumsy, chili-covered fingers in his eye with the contact, needing four tries to get it in, but he was in so much pain that his face was actually twitching with effort. Sweat beaded on his forehead. "I'm fine, sweetie. I'm fine." I began to cry. It didn't help.

Right, the crying part? That was ME. The one NOT WITH CHILI IN THEIR NON-CORNEA'ED EYE. Me? Not so tough. In fact, I'm a little bit of a wuss. About many things. Which include, but are not limited to: getting up early, going to bed, washing my face, vacuuming, doing laundry, brushing my dog, brushing my TEETH, flossing, etc, you get the picture. Maybe "wuss" isn't quite so accurate a term as possibly "lazy slack-ass". Given the option to either a) do a task I find distasteful that will take two minutes, or b) complain for half an hour, I'll choose option (b) every time.

Maybe I should have gone into the military. (My parents are convulsing in laughter right now. Thanks, guys.) (I am maybe not so respectful of authority.)

Perhaps this is why, several years after college, I still have a big problem with, say, getting up in the morning, and the LT just gets up, no snooze button needed. All calm, taking a shower at 4:30 in the morning after we've been asleep for maybe five hours, while I am not just asleep, but FIGHTING TO STAY THAT WAY, GODDAMMIT, AND IT HAD BETTER BE GODDAMNED FUCKING IMPORTANT if you want me to wake up. (I curse more in the first hour of my day than in all the rest of the hours of the day put together.)

This morning I finally struggled out of bed at 5:15 and made coffee for him as he was putting on The Uniform, and I looked over at my shaved, calm, fully-dressed boyfriend--complete with hat and shined shoes. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw: humongous bedhead, skin like a jar of spaghetti sauce had exploded on it--I HATE WASHING MY FACE--and that bed stank you get when you've slept on unclean sheets and drooled on yourself and it's dried funny.

You know what I'm talking about.

I was almost afraid to hug him goodbye--what if I polluted his uniform?