Coming Clean

We have just this morning dumped six months worth of construction trash into a hired trash guy’s truck. MAN, the relief you get when you take out the trash. I really wanted us to go through the house and take out every single bit of trash we had, but I think Jordana was worried that she didn’t get a big enough truck, so we just did the construction stuff. Credit little Jordana, she took an hour off work this morning and put her little chicken wings to work and loaded trash into the truck with me.

Both of us worry about the other’s health, and we’ve both admitted to a weird obsession with the other one dying. I feel like this will be cured by finding more things to fill our time.

I’m just kidding, of course. She wishes my weight and cholesterol were a little more controlled, and I wish she had a little more weight on her because I sometimes feel like she will literally shatter if I roll over in my sleep. It’s not that she’s painfully skinny, I think she looks fantastic, but I worry about her back and shoulder pain, and I think if she weighed a little more she’d be happier.

I’m always a little nauseated by the assumption of a shared understanding of beauty. First of all, I’m not the kinda guy who’s universally praised for his sex appeal. After all, this is what I look like…

…but I sorta sneak up on you and next thing you know, for some reason, you think I’m reasonably handsome.

Some people think Jordana is funny looking sometimes. After all, she can’t keep her hands out of her underarms…

But when we’re just sitting there goofing off and talking, like when we’re in the car or reading books or watching TV… I don’t know. It’s not that I’m gonna argue that she’s the loveliest woman in the world in some empirical sense, but there is no woman in the world who I find lovelier. I’m made so incredibly uncomfortable by men talking about the comparative sexiness or hotness of their wives or girlfriends. I’ve got to assume you’re attracted to them, or you wouldn’t marry them. Unless you hate yourself, which, I guess is fine.

But one wants to have someone at their side that the world agrees is attractive, like a sort of calling card. Men and women get dolled up to go out and meet the world, and then walk around unshowered and un-coifed at home with their significant other. I gotta tell you, it’s the opposite for us in this fucked up house. I have to beg Jordana to change out of her pajamas if we decide at the last minute to go out to dinner, but there have been a number of times that we’ve gotten showered and stuff in order to spend an evening at home.

Which doesn’t make that smart or right or morally superior or whatever. We’re bad at selling ourselves. I mean, I’m better at it than Jordana is, but the more time I spend with her, the more retarded I become. I will throw on a baseball hat and not shave in order to go see a play, but if I think there’s any chance we’ll be kissing for a half-hour, I’ll run and take a shower and put on, y’know, *lotion*.

We cleaned the house because we’re refinancing. We’ve installed tile and put up walls and trim and all kinds of shit. It wasn’t until we realized that the house would be basically *done*, and that the dook/CAROLINA game was the same day, that we decided to invite people over. That’s the thing, Jordana gets out of the shower and lies next to me with her hair unbrushed and wet, and I feel like I should invite over a casting director so you can see this girl without her shoulders up, without her jaw set, without a worry in the world. There’s a tuning fork in the middle of me, and her face makes it ring.

In any case, throwing a huge amount of stuff away is a lot like taking your house through the shower. And it’s gonna be nice that we can share it with our friends. Now, of course, I have to go finish the drywall and the closet installation, before I got to Home Depot for more trim.

And no, I haven’t showered.