Having a long distance relationship was great. Before. Had we not lived 3,000 miles away from each other, we wouldn't have made it past a month. I would have cut and run. He would have cut and run. We would have gone too fast — with feelings that strong, that quick — panicked, and fled. The distance forced us to take it slow. The distance did much to quell my panic. The distance kept me from feeling I was giving anything up. 

But now — now it's harder. 

Here's the problem with falling in love again: You get lonely. I like living alone. I like coming home and having a quiet apartment, my cats, my space — but now I find that once I've had a couple days — or, sometimes, a couple hours — of that, I want him here.

I'm not lonely because I don't enjoy my own company, but because I want his. I like knowing what he's done with his day. I want to be able to have a minute with someone who loves me after a difficult day. I want to go to sleep and know that I'll see him when I wake up.

Feeling this way is scary. Because loving someone means you give up being perfectly fine on your own. It means there's someone to miss. It means that you start to count on someone other that yourself.

There are times I don't want to be in that position. There's a lot we give up when we open ourselves up to someone. Sometimes, that's a tough trade. 

For some reason, Rob is less needy lately. When he isn't in constant monologue trying to describe every experience he had while we were apart during the day, I'm more curious about how he spends his time. I have questions for him and we can dialog. This works for me. I guess without Rob breathing down my neck, the time we do spend together seems more...pleasant!

Our trip to the meditation center was helpful — our program allowed us time together apart from the group, plus time apart from each other. We struck a nice balance.

Due to the quiet-hours rule and no television, we went to bed together at the same time — a big change in routine. At home Rob retires after 11 and I fall asleep on the couch. I usually wake around 1 or 2 and go to bed. That leaves no awake time in bed together. At Kripalu we stayed up comparing notes on the workshop and laughing about quirks of the other participants. I felt downright close to him! (I even let him spoon me as we fell asleep.) 

This closeness has come just in time for the stressful holidays. We're about to embark on a four-day family extravaganza covering 1200 miles, three families, and two turkey dinners. Into that mix throw a new step-father; a father with Alzhiemer's and a needy girlfriend; and a brother who says he's not going to show up, but just might, probably drunk, flask in hand. If there's a time I ever needed a partner, it's now.