I mean, I really think you like me

At the risk of kicking a very dead horse, I'd like to point out once again that at the core, I hold some potent hermit sensibilities. I get snarky when I don't have a relative abundance of alone time.

Along those lines, recently I've been thinking about how I've made it a top priority in my little turtle life to maintain a distinct, consistent, and intentional sense of self. Though I'm not sure whether the chicken or egg came first, this preference has to be related to my hermitess lifestyle, and I suspect that all us J.D. Sallinger-wannabes might have this in common. My alone time gives me the physical and mental space to distance myself from others and experience what it is to be me, uncensored and alone, and to keep active mental tabs on the person I'm becoming. While being shaped by others is unavoidable, I've always hated the idea that another person could change me or determine who I am without my knowledge or consent. Other people are welcome sources of new information and viewpoints for me to cognizantly absorb, but at the end of the day I insist on being (to the extent that it's possible) the sole voice that dictates the construction of myself.

Somewhere around high school and hormones I realized that this relatively bizarre and extreme independent streak might cause problems if and when I ever started seriously dating. I couldn't imagine that a devoted Significant Other would take very kindly to being a "only Significant to the extent that I let you be adjacent to myself" Other.

Consequently, once I tripped over Ian and he began to morph from "the guy I'm dating" into "my first serious and long-term boyfriend", in the back of my mind I waited for the trouble to brew, assuming that it wouldn't be very long before I'd be pushing him out a window in a fit of identity angst. Instead, as month-iversaries turned into anniversaries, I gradually forgot about my worry. Other than a few start-of-the-relationship blips (during which my habitual solitary attitude manifested itself in the form of me being an inconsiderate asshole), my concerns simply faded from memory.

I bring this up now because, since last Wednesday, Ian's been back in his tropical homeland, and I feel like I've had some sort of weird, noninvasive lobotomy. As it turns out, what makes Ian special and un-defenestrated is that he has burrowed snugly into my life without violating my totalitarian sense of self. Without changing who I am, he's become a functional part of me, like a spleen or left arm, and I feel a little out-of-balanced and phantom-pained without him around. Until now I've failed to appreciate how much I've come to rely on having him as almost a second self, the kind of person I can daily bore with the mundane details of my existence. I'm convinced that the reason that, despite being in a relationship, I don't miss alone time is because Ian's presence has become so comfortable and second-nature that our couple-time is an effectual replacement.

It sounds almost boring, but for me it's really pretty exciting. Basically, it's going to be a long four months.

Now please, if necessary, gag yourself at your leisure.