The Deodorant

I woke up this morning.

Reluctantly.

Incredibly fucking reluctantly.

Yesterday morning, I didn't want to leave the house either. Dawna and I had an amazing night, and when I'm next to her, I find myself not wanting to go anywhere.

And I don't mean that in some creepy, codependent, lock-the-doors-and-never-let-her-leave kind of way.

I mean it in the my heart is so fucking full right now and I don't want this feeling to end kind of way.

But I went to work.

Because apparently that's still a thing.

Eventually, I headed home. Kind of. First I stopped at the bank to get cash for the photographer. Then I stopped at the store to pick up the fixings for the three dozen oysters that are supposed to show up soon, because evidently this is my life now. Motorcycles, oysters, photography, and a woman I can't stop staring at.

Finally, I turned down the alley toward the house.

As I rode toward the garage, I started fishing around for my keys so I could hit the garage door opener.

And then the garage door started opening.

What the fuck?

For a second, my brain couldn't quite process what was happening.

Then I saw her.

Dawna.

Standing there, grinning at me because she was excited that I was home.

And I was just as fucking excited to see her.

It's such a stupid little thing when you think about it. Someone opening the garage door because they heard you coming home. People probably do that every goddamned day all over the world and never give it another thought.

But I'm not used to it.

I'm not used to someone waiting for me.

I'm not used to someone being excited when I come home.

I'm not used to pulling into my own garage and realizing that home isn't just the building anymore.

It's her.

She'd gotten her nails done earlier in the day and had picked up a little gift for me while she was out shopping. Nothing enormous. Nothing life changing. Just one of those little things that says, I was out living my day, and somewhere in the middle of it, I thought about you.

And fuck.

That nearly brought a tear to my eye.

This morning, I faced the same dilemma.

The same reluctance.

The same resistance to leaving.

Except something has changed.

I know I have to go to work. Of course I do. But work feels different now. For most of my life, I got up because that's what you fucking do. You work. You pay your bills. You take care of your responsibilities. You survive another day and get up tomorrow to do it all over again.

But I don't rise simply for the sake of rising anymore.

I have someone I'm working for now.

I rise for the sake of us.

That's a strange fucking realization for someone who has spent so much of her life answering only to herself.

So I lumbered through my morning routine, trying to convince my body that five-something in the morning was a perfectly reasonable time to participate in civilization. Somewhere between brushing my teeth and conditioning my hair, I noticed something sitting on the bathroom counter that hadn't been there before.

A stick of deodorant.

Not mine.

Hers.

And I smiled.

She bought herself deodorant.

For the house.

That was it.

A fucking stick of deodorant.

And somehow that stupid little piece of plastic sitting on my bathroom counter hit me harder than some grand romantic gesture ever could.

Because you don't buy deodorant for somewhere you're visiting.

You bring deodorant when you're visiting.

You buy deodorant when you're starting to think maybe you don't need to pack everything every time.

You buy deodorant when you're starting to leave pieces of yourself behind.

She is settling in.

Not dramatically. There hasn't been some ceremonial combining of households. No moving truck backed into the driveway. No grand declaration that this is ours now.

Just little things.

A stick of deodorant on the bathroom counter.

Her things appearing next to mine.

The garage door opening before I can reach for the remote.

Her smile when I come home.

Our lives quietly beginning to overlap until I'm not entirely sure where mine ends and hers begins.

And standing there in the bathroom this morning, staring at fucking deodorant, my heart throbbed with love.

Because today isn't just another day.

Today I propose.

Yes, a dear friend pointed out yesterday that perhaps writing about an impending secret proposal on a public fucking blog isn't exactly the textbook definition of operational security.

She's right.

I fucking suck at secrets.

And before anyone chimes in to point out where I work and what I supposedly do for a living, I'd just like to preemptively invite you to go fuck yourself.

This is different.

I've spent so much of my life surviving. I've spent so much of it moving from one disaster to the next, fighting whatever was directly in front of me and rarely allowing myself to believe too strongly in whatever might come afterward.

But there is an afterward now.

I can see it.

She's sleeping in my bed.

She's opening my garage door.

She's leaving deodorant on our bathroom counter.

Our bathroom.

Fuck.

Today I'm going to get down on one knee in front of the woman I want beside me for every sunrise, every storm, every ride, and every mile this life has left to offer.

I already know what I'm going to say.

I have the ring.

I have the ridiculously fancy lighted ring box.

The photographer knows.

Everything is ready.

Except maybe me.

But that's okay.

Because maybe you're never really ready for the moments that change the rest of your life. Maybe you just recognize them when they arrive and, for once, have the courage not to let them pass you by.

So I'm going to work this morning.

Reluctantly.

Incredibly fucking reluctantly.

But tonight, if everything goes the way I hope it does, I'll come home with my fiancée.

And tomorrow morning there will still be two sticks of deodorant sitting on the bathroom counter.

Hers and mine.

Such a ridiculously small fucking thing.

And somehow, it means everything.

Thank you, Universe.

For all the times you had to put this woman in front of me before I finally opened my fucking eyes.