Symbology.

Well, it's been a while and there's probably lots I should/could update you on, but there's only one topic that has come up recently and announced itself as the post I needed to write.

Symbology.  It's a made up word, but its meaning is loaded with significance.  Let me explain.  It all started a while ago when I asked my counterpart to stop thinking literally and start thinking symbolically.  A native concrete thinker, this was quite a charge.  It was akin to asking me to calculate the square root of a three-digit number in my head.  Ugly.  Nonetheless, he persevered and really tried to understand how something so simple could have so much "meaning" to me.  Perhaps this sounds abstract, but over the preceding months, we had countless discussions about things that I thought had meaning but he thought were just empty gestures. In this regard, "symbology" really means that it's my (and arguably many women's) study of minutia in order to make sense of the male world or our relationship with specific men.  It is the practice of decoding, of sorting, of analyzing in hopes to understand why they don't notice the snazzy new nail polish color you're wearing, why they need to play hours of video games, or why they do or don't do whatever it is we've let seep into our consciousness and derail the highly wonderful intellectual thoughts we're capable of having every day.  In short, symbology is an ovary-derived royal pain in the ass.


Now, "symbology" is the term we use to discuss this disconnect, the seemingly large gap in our communication skills, the study of things that is clearly so subjective that it shouldn't have a science-y suffix like "ology."  Two weeks ago, for example, we had another minor 'sode.  Our episodes are never serious, but always stem from some form of gap--in expectations, in interpretation, in our moods--and are always resolved when we break apart the symbols to see where we went wrong.  The 'sode came after a great afternoon and evening together.  En route home, my counterpart realized that he needed my help carrying stuff up to his apartment.  A few months ago, this would never have been an issue.  However, he moved into a new apartment and has totally avoided letting me see it.  Seriously avoided it.  In his defense, when he realized that this was bothering me, he invited me over, but only to quell my bratty whining about it.  So, when he realized he needed me to help him carry stuff up to his apartment, I couldn't help but to unleash more bratty behavior.  Yes, I know I'm too old for such things. And you know I'm too old for such things (even if you don't know how old I am, if I'm old enough for a blog, I'm old enough to know better!). 

Anyway, we had a minor skirmish in the parking lot of the Stop & Shop all about the symbology of seeing his apartment.  Try as he might, he was unable to understand why it was important for me to see the new place.  And my efforts to explain my feelings were also useless.  So I simply helped him carry stuff in and that was that. Sort of.  The next day while driving back from a quick trip to Boston, I went back to that fins/lashes moment and something clicked.  In his last apartment, he never really felt settled in.  Pictures never made it to the walls.  The bookcases were never really filled.  And even the hamper I gave him to avoid the piles that drive me crazy was never really used. As a result, we agreed that the new place would be different in all of these ways.  And apparently, the delay in seeing the apartment was the result of my counterpart's desire to impress me with his domesticity.  That's right: he wanted to put everything together so that I could be proud of his domestic side. Mind boggling, no?  Seconds after putting this all together, I realized that his thinking was exactly the opposite of mine.  When I prepared to move months earlier, I made him walk through the apartment with me to help me sort everything out.  In addition to choosing where essential items like the TV should go, I needed him to help me sort out which colors I wanted and how to arrange the furniture.  Could I have done this by myself? Of course, but I wanted his input; I wanted his help as I imagined what my new space/life would be like. And he obliged. He helped me pick each color (even when he couldn't see the difference between the hues and found the names utterly inane) and helped me strategize about how to handle the new place's oddities. Surely he wanted my help in the same way, right? Wrong. He wanted to show me how well he could do all of these things on his own.  And sure enough, when I walked into the still unfinished apartment, the effort was clear.  A few framed pictures were up, throw rugs had been carefully placed, and he quickly demonstrated that he had all sorts of plans for the space.  While the nutty side of me wanted to feel unneeded or some other counter-productive emotion, my sane self was thoroughly impressed by his efforts to settle in.

It's a Start

Somehow something as simple as carrying stuff up to his apartment had led to a pure fins & lashes moment.  Since then, we've talked through how different our expectations were and I think we understand how we ended up in a parking lot squabble about something so very silly. And since then, we've even spent time buying all sorts of frames and other trimmings for his new home.  He even bought coasters and candles last week while we were at the state fair.  Don't believe me? Check out Exhibit A on the right.    Sure, it's a beer bottle that's been turned into a candle, but it's a start. And he bought two of them. And loves lighting them.  Of course I secretly wished they smelled like lavender, but I'll take what I can and right now that's my counterpart's desire to decorate! Next up: fresh flowers in a vase that was once a Jagermeister bottle!!