how I met your mother

I love love stories. Stories about how people met their significant others.

Okay, I love stories and people and love but the combination of the three, with a really good love story, actually makes my fingertips tingle.

Here's a good one I heard recently.

A couple met for the first time aged 10, on a church camp. Then, completely coincidentally, again aged 13, another church camp.
Both times they really hit it off, first as buddies, then as giggly self-conscious tweens.
After that they didn't see each other for a decade.

She went to university, fell pregnant and moved to another city to live with her parents and face life as a single mum.
He learnt a trade, married young, had a child and then a nasty divorce.

Completely by chance, when her baby was 8 months old, she and her parents visited a mission station in a remote part of the country. They stayed with the couple running the mission and she, by looking at the family photos on the walls, realised they were her camp buddy's parents. They all had a good laugh.

A few days after she got home she emailed them some photos she'd taken while staying there. He emailed her back.

8 months later they married. He adopted her baby and a few years later they had one of their own.

Such intertwining of coincidence and circumstance can only be fate right? And although not a believer myself I can absolutely understand how they see the hand of God in their story, working to bring them together.

Fate or God clearly they were meant to be. And that's totally romantic enough for me.

I'm seeing someone

Not really the kind of thing one admits to in 'public' right? But luckily my husband bored of my blog years ago and very seldom visits anymore.

I'm seeing someone. Someone who makes time for me, who really (really) listens, someone who I can be completely open with, who doesn't judge me. Someone who accepts me completely.

Truth is the relationship was short-lived, we're no longer an item. Maybe this is why I can speak about it more freely now.

Truth is she only really wanted to see me twice. True to my history in these matters, she only really needed 1 and a half sessions. I only really needed 1 and a half sessions.
1 in which to sob uncontrollably and throw all my metaphorical dirty laundry around the room, to say out loud those things we all have unsaid within our heads and hearts.
And then a full, introspective week later, another session to tell her how I removed the stains, washed and folded all those grimy unmentionables and were now able to pack them neatly away, fresh and clean for at least another 5+ years.

God, therapy is amazing. I'm back, and I'm feeling great.

ffs

I'm sitting here with sore hands from gardening. Yup, gardening. What's happening to me?

I'm a full blown domestic diva goddess who enjoys nothing more than hanging up laundry on my new line in the courtyard of my new house. I bake (okay, I always baked), but this time I bake with a goddamn view!
This time the sun streams in on my vintage stand mixer as I bake and listen to my children's voices echo across the lake and I feel a bit like this.

I feel a little like I don't know how I got this lucky. I feel a teeny-weeny little bit like it's all a dream and sometime soon we'll have to pack up and go back to Obs.

And in the night I feel a little like something bad might be heading our way because how can one life contain so much goodness?
I'm taking tranqs again. Living in paradise and taking pills for anxiety. How much more fucking white middle-class and indulgent can I get?