Because now – it’s exactly the opposite.

When he dropped me off at the airport, I could almost detect a bit of giddiness in his voice. He barely hugged me, gave me a quick peck and said, “See ya!” and got back into his car and drove away. I’ve talked to him a few times since I left, and for the first time in the two-plus months since I’ve moved in, he seems downright happy. And it made me a little sad.

Because I think I’m happy too. Happy might not be the right word. Relieved is probably a better choice.

I’m staying at a co-worker/friend’s house, and she’s been out of town for the first few days of my trip. Walking into an empty house was like a huge weight lifting off my shoulders. I unpacked slowly, rather than the frenetic packing (and resulting tantrum) that occurred at home before I left. I took a long bath and didn’t worry about a comment of how much water I use every night filling up the tub. I read a magazine cover to cover, got into bed with all the lights off because no one was reading next to me, and I slept – all night.

When I woke up the next morning with no one next to me, I didn’t have a twinge of loneliness, not even a pang. I had no cats to feed, no throw-up or pee to clean up, no dishes to put away, and no vacuuming to do. Hey wait, shouldn’t I miss him?

Then again, I also had no morning kiss, no coffee in bed, and no one in the shower with me (okay, that part I’ll admit I kind of liked).

Now he’s watching football, working in the garage, puttering in the backyard and going on mountain bike rides. These are all the things he does normally, but I can’t help but think that now he sounds like he’s on a fabulous vacation – from me.

Everyone here is so excited for me. They keep coming in to look at my ring, wanting to know every detail of my wedding plans – of which there are none.

When I got home last year, we almost broke up. It was mostly my exhaustion speaking combined with a little cold feet for the first trimester of a new relationship. We ended up picking up where we left off, having an amazing Christmas, and well, you know the rest.

This time when I get home, we leave 4 days later for a two-week trip with his mom.

So I guess the question is, will I want to go home?

I was on the basketball team in high school. One night we played the number one team in the state. We weren’t ranked in the top one hundred. The game started and they scored ten points in about a minute and a half. Our coach called timeout. In the huddle he kept pleading, “Don’t panic! Don’t panic!” We took the court again and they scored another ten points, almost as quickly. We called timeout again. The huddle was very quiet. Not even our coach knew what to say. I decided to break the deathly silence by asking, “Hey Coach… is it OK if we panic now?” We still lost, but we ended up making a real game of it. Who knows what would’ve happened if we’d gotten off to a strong start?

I’m NOT saying you’re down twenty points in the first quarter and I DO think it’s too early to panic. But I don’t think this is the fairy tale you’ve been dreaming of all these years and it begs the same question I’ve been asking myself for so long now – are you more suited for, and even destined to be alone?

Let’s start with the facts: Over half of all marriages end in divorce. Your parent’s marriage was a joke. Most of your married friends are miserable. Oh, and let’s not forget… you gave up your entire life to be in this marriage-to-be. These are not reassuring pieces of information, but they cannot, and should not be ignored.

The trouble with fact is that it sometimes gets in the way of a good romance. So maybe you moved a little too fast… you were digging the guy, and he was digging you just as much. And maybe you were forced by circumstance to sacrifice a lot more of your life than he did… you had a decision to make and you made it. The last time I checked, you guys were still engaged. Maybe it’s time you focused a little more on the good stuff that got you here, instead of the downright inconvenience of having to alter your bathroom habits or allow an end table to be placed in the wrong corner of the living room. He’s a good man and you love each other and there’s no way I would say or write this if it wasn’t certain of it. On the other hand, what if those things simply aren’t enough to make it work? I don’t have an answer for that any more than the next guy, despite the fact that it happens all of the time.

Hey, nobody said it was going to be easy… if it was every couple you know would be happy.

It’s the change in all of my relationships that I’m referring to. I knew that I would see my family less, I knew that I would see my friends less, and I knew those relationships would be challenged in ways that they had not been challenged before. What I didn’t know was that I would feel like I was being punished for finally falling in love.

And for the most part, the person making me feel that way is you.

For the past ten years of our friendship, I have been primarily single. I have been in and out of a few semi-long term relationships but one thing has been constant: when there’s been heartbreak, you’ve always been there to help me pick myself up, dust myself off, and get back on the horse. You championed me; “That guy was an asshole – you can do so much better!” “You don’t need that guy! He’s a douche bag!” We’d immediately get back to our routine of cocktails on Mondays or Thursdays, and for the past few years, our blog. We’d cackle over our love blunders (mostly mine), and it seemed our friendship withstood anyone who came and went in our lives.

But this year was different. This year there was The New Guy. And everything’s changed. Our friendship wasn’t affected when you got divorced. It wasn’t affected when you were crazy about a new girl – or two. It wasn’t affected when I dated Extra Large Jerk, or Salt and Pepper, or even my ex.

But now it’s real. I’m engaged and I moved 60 miles away. And now you’re gone.

I know my new domesticated life is boring to you. But I’m still me. I will still have my crazy stories; my skeletons will still be constantly falling out of the closet, I promise. I can still talk on the phone, and I still have a car.

So I’m asking for me (and for our readers), and especially for our future as best friends, please put whatever bullshit is going on with you aside and be my friend again. I promise to start talking more about sex (when I start having it more), and I promise to continue to tell more stories that remind you of the old me.

For example, did I ever tell you about the guy I dated who worked at the grocery store? The holidays always remind me of him, because one time when I was loading the bags into my car, he held a sprig of mistletoe over my head and laid a big ol’ smooch on me. We dated for a while, but it was 1990 and I honestly can’t remember what happened next.

Well, he just wrote to me on Facebook.

So are you back in?

I had this girlfriend once, and I mean she was a girl who was really just a friend. She worked for me. She was (and still is, I presume) 12 years younger than me, but she was as smart and funny and cute as any woman twice her age. Sometimes, I wanted to sleep with her, but I never tried, and mostly I really enjoyed this unique friendship I had with her. For a while, she was as important to me as any friend I had and I really thought we’d be friends forever. At the peak of our friendship, she met a guy and eventually married him. They now have three kids and live about half an hour from me. I haven’t seen or spoken to her since the day she got married. I have no idea why, but I know that I regret it. I also know that I have no intention of letting that happen to us.

To me, relationships, friendships, affairs and the like all have a shelf life of sorts. For most, this shelf life is finite and the end result an enjoyable, but limited result. Only the special ones last a lifetime, or even close to it. But it goes back to what I’ve always said about relationships of any kind… circumstances have WAY MORE to do with them than we usually realize.

For example, which part of moving 60 miles away to live with the man you’re going to marry did you think was going to have zero impact on our friendship: the 60 miles part or the getting married part? You remember me, don’t you? I’m the guy with three kids who you already lived twenty miles away from – in the other direction. I’m the friend that you saw consistently, but hardly often, due to what they like to call in show business as, “scheduling conflicts.” Or put it another way… if you’d stayed put and I’d moved 60 miles in the other direction, would we have seen each other any more than we have now?

And now that I’m rolling… yeah, TNG and I are all good and yeah, he knows we’re only friends and yeah, even under the surface he’s as comfortable with our friendship as if I were female, or gay. No one is happier about this than me. But do you really think that means I’m calling you up at 10:30 at night because I’m drunk, or because I’m pissed at my girl or because you left a weepy message on my voicemail three hours earlier? The truth is I’m not. If it’s an emergency, I promise not to hesitate. Other than that, the conversation will have to wait until tomorrow… or next week. I’m sure it would be OK with you. But I won’t do it out of respect to him. Call it old-fashioned if you want… I prefer to call it old school.

As far as being “in?” Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t miss the next twenty or so years of your life for season tickets to the Boston Celtics. Well, unless they were floor seats. Just kidding. You’re stuck with me.

Meet his family… If he’s good to his mother, then he’s the guy for you.

Okay, so I’ve met TNG’s family. I definitely know he’s good to his mother. And he’s definitely good to me… after his mother, of course.

Get sick. If he takes care of you, then he’s the guy for you.

I got deathly ill and he failed that one miserably. But then I fell face first on a mountain and he passed the yogurt and ice cream test with flying colors. Then I got sick again and he failed miserably again. I guess 80 stitches in your face deserves more attention than a bad cold. Plus, I have to admit I do get sick a lot.

Go on a trip. If you travel well together, then he’s the guy for you.

We’ve been on a few trips together. Yes, my nickname is “Five Stars” and his is “Two Stars,” but I’ve managed to come down a few notches in the last year and he seems to be enjoying his rise in hotel thread counts. Aside from my occasional abandonment into First Class, we seem to mesh well on the road and have lots of stamps in our passports to look forward to.

Live together. If you don’t kill each other in the first six months, then he’s the guy for you.

The initial road to the end of Month 1 was rocky at best, and I certainly shed a lot of tears, but Month 2 has proven to be a little bit drier. Except for my current cold.

Have a garage sale together. If he lets you sell all his shit, then he’s the guy for you.

I made that one up. But let me tell you… that should absolutely be on the list. Last weekend TNG and I had the yard sales to end all yard sales. Being the obsessive person I am, I of course spent the two weeks prior pulling every piece of junk from my boxes and his entire house (mostly his house), organizing them into sections in the living room, pricing every item with a sticker, advertising online and making signs. Each night, he stood in front of the piles of his past looking longingly at his rusted red-painted floor lamp from 1972.

On the morning of the sale, I woke him at 4am. He looked at me like I was crazy. I said, “You think I’m crazy, but they’ll be here in an hour.” Sure enough, just as I had dragged the last stack of plaid flannel bedding out to the table (neatly tied and tagged of course), headlights flooded our driveway. The early birds (or bottom feeders as TNG angrily called them after they offered $1 for his beloved lamp) had their own flashlights, and they were ready to buy. One guy even wore a headlamp.

“How about fifty cents for this?” asked one lady who held up TNG’s poster of a Gargoyle. I saw the words “That’s not for sale” forming in a bubble above his head so I rushed over to her and whispered a price behind my hand. We haggled with our hands over our mouths like the pitcher and catcher in the World Series, and soon she walked off with the poster that used to hang prominently over the couch.

At the end of the day, as we watched the last piece drive away, TNG looked at me with panic. “I think we sold too much!” he said. He spent the next few days wandering through the house saying, “Wow, it looks a lot nicer in here. I guess that garage sale was a good thing after all.”

“Except,” he said, “I shouldn’t have sold that lamp.”

Gotta go. I’ve got cookies baking in my new oven.

It’s not you, it’s me… really. And since I’m not breaking up with you, you can believe I’m telling the truth. I’m not a dreamer and I’m not an idiot. I am fully aware that meeting the family and surviving a garage sale together are moments as common and integral to the success of a relationship as a good sex life and the ability to laugh at each other without wanting to kill each other. I’ve read enough magazine articles and surfed enough Internet to know that what you are saying about the potential and viability of a relationship is defined way more by the small and dull moments than it could ever be by the grandiose and sweeping moments. I know this in my head, but in my heart I still have a hard time making the connection. In my heart, I still fear that this is a truth I may never be able to reconcile.

Allow me to state my shallow case by addressing the menu you have so painstakingly laid out before us, one item at a time:

Meet his family… If he’s good to his mother, then he’s the guy for you.

If a guy isn’t good to his mother, chances are a woman with a pulse will know it by the second date. A guy who treats his mother poorly will usually reveal himself by then. A guy who treats his mother poorly is either, A) a complete asshole, B)… well, he’s just a complete asshole. Passing this test is like passing finger painting in kindergarten… It’s truly nothing to brag about.

Get sick. If he takes care of you, then he’s the guy for you.

The first time I took this test, I received a D. My girlfriend was home alone with a fever of 103 and I played both ends of a softball doubleheader, followed by a post-game drinking session with my teammates. I’ve gotten much better. I’ve taken this test about 400 times since then and I’ve worked my way up to a C minus. My solution is this: don’t get sick.

Go on a trip. If you travel well together, then he’s the guy for you.

Isn’t this kind of easy? Let’s see… cocktails on the plane, hotel sex, great weather, hotel sex, no work, hotel sex, white sand beaches, hotel sex, gourmet meals, conscience-free shopping and yes, hotel sex. How tough is this? If I care enough about a woman to even consider taking a trip with her, the rest is gravy to me.

Live together. If you don’t kill each other in the first six months, then he’s the guy for you.

I’m glad your “living together” engine is running more smoothly of late. I’m happy you’ve moved beyond a menu of daily meltdowns and buckets of tears and you know I wish you nothing but complete and utter giddiness in your new life. Still, there’s four months to go before you reach the end of this mythical, six-month probation period… But let’s not pop the champagne just yet, champ.

Have a garage sale together. If he lets you sell all his shit, then he’s the guy for you.

………………… Oh sorry, I fell asleep on my keyboard for a second.

Call me crazy, but I’d like to think that it takes a lot more than the absence of a domestic felony at a garage sale to help a woman decide if the man of her dreams remains the man of her dreams. But, whatever floats your boat.

Oh, and congrats on the brand-new oven your collective possessions bought you… and the fact that you slept in the same bed that night.

Hey (She Said), I know it’s been a few years since we’ve talked (had a one-night stand), but I was in your neighborhood and thought you might like to get a drink (have a one-night stand again). Anyway, if it works on your end (if you want to sleep with me and go another two years without talking), let me know. ~ Joe Schmo

I’m only shocked it didn’t happen sooner. Having been single for so long prior to meeting TNG, I had a feeling that situations like this would arise. It’s actually a good thing that this engagement has taken me out of the area code of my old life.

Hey Joe, yeah, long time. Actually, that’s not my neighborhood anymore. I’m sixty miles away now. Oh, and by the way, I’m getting married. So, sorry about the booty call, but I’m going to have to pass. Take care, (She Said)

Okay, so that’s not exactly what I said, but it’s close.

Wow, that’s great news! I hope he’s a good guy; otherwise I might have to kick his ass. You deserve only the best… Are you sure you don’t want to meet for a drink? You’re not married yet, after all.

Oh, so tempting. Not really.

Yeah, he’s a great guy, so no need for the fisticuffs. (I love that word) Anyway, take care. (She Said)

So… no drink then?

I decided not to answer. And my gut tells me I should never have answered to begin with. But this situation begs the question of what to do in the future. Because, knowing me as you do, this is bound to happen again. Not to mention the fact that I brought my phone number with me to TNG’s, which in hindsight was probably a big mistake. And yes, I am the last person on the planet with a landline.

Here’s the thing: TNG doesn’t know that this exchange took place. Does the “what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him” theory apply here or do I have to tell him every time my past resurfaces? Obviously the conversation was harmless, but I did engage in conversation with the guy. I have to believe that every once in a while, an old girlfriend looks up my man and I’m none the wiser. According to TNG’s gossipy next-door neighbor, this place has had a revolving door on it for the last 10 years (which actually makes me kind of relieved).

Luckily the emails stopped after I didn’t respond. But if the sins of the past come calling again… what’s a girl to do?

When it comes to past lovers, we must be very, very good.

For guys, it’s about the lure of temptation and the ego stroke of being wanted, even if the only thing we’re wanted for is what’s hanging between our legs. We’re usually more than happy to take a trip down memory lane with an old flame when the opportunity arises. We don’t even need the memories to be particularly romantic or, well, memorable.

Sure, I remember all that great sex we had (even though I was drunk every time).

Sure I remember our first kiss (I was already deciding how soon it could be until our last kiss).

Sure, I remember that weekend we were invited to your sister’s beach house (I spent the entire weekend figuring out how I could have sex with her instead of you).

When sex from the past reappears in the present, I don’t know too many guys that don’t at least give it some thought, if not action. Okay, I don’t know any guys that don’t at least give it some thought. And I know a lot of guys who give it some action.

Everybody in a relationship carries the baggage of their individual past. The later in life we commit to someone, the more baggage we bring to the table. At a certain point, we all have a decision to make: Are we about our past, and the baggage we carry, or are we about the now, and what we still believe can be? You made it clear where your choice lies… I’d like to think I’d do the same thing in your shoes.

Either way, I see no reason to share whatever baggage we carry with someone we love, if it doesn’t reveal itself on its own. Part of having someone love us is allowing them to think of us more highly than we would otherwise… Why rob someone we love of feeling this way?

After a year of seeing him just on weekends, I’m realizing that he only knew the “groomed” side of me. I made sure I shaved my legs every Friday, I had makeup on, my hair was clean, etc. My question is – do you guys even care? He of course hasn’t said anything, but since I’ve moved in, I’ve definitely been lacking in all of the above. Am I already that woman who I mocked in earlier blogs? The one who trades in her skinny jeans for sweatpants and her makeup for cold cream? Okay, so I’m not totally her yet – but I’m definitely hovering over the drain. Do you think he’s noticed? My gut says no, but I shaved this morning just in case.

Speaking of noticing, let’s talk bedroom – and sleepwear. I sleep in pajamas. They’re cute pajamas, but they’re jammies nonetheless. And yes, sometimes even socks. I know, I know, I just killed the porn dream of the girlfriend who answers the door in skimpy lingerie (which I did a few times) but if this is my home, I gotta be comfortable. So, after I finally found the box with my pajamas, I put them on. Did I just snuff out the fire with one glimpse of heather gray cotton?

As long as we’re on the subject of grooming and sleeping preferences, let’s talk bathroom. I know – T.M.I. – but now that I’m living with someone, I’m really starting to realize just how uptight and tightly wound I actually am. He’s so relaxed about everything; he even leaves the door open. Not only do I have to be on another floor of the house with the fan on… honestly it’s actually better if no one is home. I’ve said it before; I think this man was put in my life to loosen me up a little. He actually snickers at me when I come out looking sheepish. In my family no one can go to the bathroom… call it years of repression. I guess I don’t really have a question on that one. He had to know that at some point in the relationship I would finally go number two.

I’m making small strides. I’m no longer asking for permission to do things, I’m just doing them. I still haven’t adjusted to the fact that someone is in my bed every night (neither has my insomnia) but the mornings sure are nice. Which brings up another question… Now that we live together, do I still have to make the girlfriend run to the bathroom to brush my hair and use mouthwash? I know these seem like stupid questions, but we have met, right?

Hey, at least I’m not crying anymore.

I’m happy for you… I really am. As close friend, writing partner and one of your biggest fans, true happiness is all I’ve ever wanted for you. Maybe you’ve (finally) found it. Maybe baking banana bread while folding laundry and debating the merits of shampooing the living room carpet is a hidden nirvana for which I lack the depth to appreciate. Maybe re-arranging closets and adjusting to the personal bathroom habits of a loved one warms the cockles of many a heart, despite leaving mine numb and in search of an exit sign. Maybe true love has less to do with passion and fire and living the lyrics of a classic love song, and more to do with all of the little things that transpire between a man and a woman while washing dishes or mowing the lawn or falling asleep together in front of a reality TV show. For the sake of those who still believe, I choose to hope so. For the romantic cynic that still resides in me, I’m not so sure.

So now what? A quick rewind of the last six months of your life reveals a ton of pros, the occasional con, and an engagement as endearing as it was lame, a relocation that probably came too soon, two weeks of tears and terror followed by… domestic bliss. Talk about an oxymoron. Who decided to combine “domestic” with “bliss?” A man and a woman living together and getting married is tough enough… The pressure of turning the “domestic” into “bliss” can be enough to derail even the purest of love affairs. Domestic and bliss should never be paired together; they do each other a complete injustice. Domestic is easy – you had domestic figured out before you even had your driver’s license. Every fairy tale and Disney movie has made sure of that. It’s the bliss, and its elusive nature that renders us all clueless. It’s the bliss, or its lack thereof that turns our hearts upside down and our minds inside out. It’s the bliss that had you move in with this man you love way before you were ready and it’s the bliss you feared you’d lost that had you packing your bag the second week you were there. The bliss is what we all seek, yet only occasionally find. The bliss, at least the promise of it is what keeps us coming back for more, rarely ever knowing if it even exists.

So I repeat… now what? You’re engaged. You live with him. You’re marrying him (eventually). He’s messy? Boo freaking hoo… deal with it. He craps with the bathroom door open? Do you know what that makes him? Every man you know, including your writing partner. You have questions? You don’t need my answers. You’ve always known this is the way it was going to be, and now you’re making shit up because somewhere deep inside you’re afraid it’s all supposed to be different. Somewhere deep inside, you’re afraid it’s supposed to be … better. From this fear, you should release yourself. This is a fear we all share, yet will never solve. This is a fear that simply comes with the territory. This is a fear that keeps people like me living alone and a fear that you chose to ignore when the moving van pulled up in front of your apartment last month. Your new home has plenty of space, but it has no room for this fear, and any regret that might come with it.

He probably thinks you look really cute in your jammies and sweat socks… But yeah, the mouthwash is key.