One hundred inches of snow in a month or so can test a person. It can test her inner resources, it can test her marriage, it can test her will to live. I’ve been thinking a lot about relationships recently because one of the major friendships of my life died last year. I think of my friend with her boyfriend, and how she couldn’t maintain her friendship with me and her relationship with him at once. Two people. Both of whom love her.
And I can’t help but look at my own romantic relationship. DP and I have been cooped up in the house together for a long time. Nerves have frayed. Tempers have flared. But also we have laughed and commiserated and reminded each other why we deserve each other (bad puns and terrible Russian accents come to mind; no one wants to inflict that on other people).
It’s Sunday morning and I have a lot to do today. I have papers to grade and a new weeks’ worth of assignments, reading, and discussion to set up. But I also have 12,000 words of my own writing to clean up. I am choosing to write. They say (whoever they are) that love is a choice. You choose to stay in love with your partner.
I could (theoretically) choose to spend an illicit weekend with a stranger, but I choose not to go down that path. I choose to spend my Saturday night with DP rewatching Agent Carter (no, really, it’s so good I watched it twice). But I also choose to be a writer. I could be building a snow fort, but instead I’m typing a blog post and will go on to edit those 12,000 words.
I’ve written (for me) a record number of words and stayed with DP a record number of years. What records are you breaking?