The question that is ricocheting in my brains causing me the sorrow I can only compare, being from a village in Slovenia, to the screaming plea of a homestead animal about to die and the inevitability of the animal’s destiny. I had, and I have no answer to this excruciating plea. I can only tell a story which starts with the reveal that I am the poopy.
How can a word for excrements be the most loving nickname of my life? As anybody in a relationship would know, love is not all roses it is also farts. Literally. My liking of beer and apparent intolerance of some of its ingredients makes for an unpleasant combination that produces the smells rarely described in Romantic era sonnets. Thus the nickname was born, however the story starts where all things begin in 21st century: on the Internet.
There was a woman on OkCupid that seemed to be into climbing, which for me was basically the only opener I had (now I have upgraded to also talk about socialism), so I commented on her picture. A month later I got an answer and after about 6 months of online chatter I was walking through the arrivals door in Lisbon airport deliberating what to do if she ghosts me (also I believed there is a 50% chance she is a bot). As a precaution I told my family and friends I am visiting a “friend”. A ruse I successfully employed many times before. Imaginary friends are quite useful when used properly. Well it turned out she is real. She was waiting with a tiny sign that said: 1st international Eastern European climbers’ summit. Next night she asked if we can be together forever. Since I am an atheist and don’t believe in an afterlife I could only promise until death do us part. Three months later I moved to Lisbon to be with her.
Years ago I had recurring dreams that I am in a bed with a woman (I was single – go figure), but just before I would hug her I woke up and realize that I am lying alone in the bed. Now I woke up because she was trying to snuggle with me (well sometimes she was rocking me in the middle of the night and asking: “Are you awake?”).
I never lived with anybody before and neither had she. The non-monogamous nature of our relationship meant there was a lot of adapting. I had to embrace a new paradigm of relationships and she had to renounce some of her absolute freedom. It was a lot of conversation about our feelings and expectations, some tears, and a pinch of despair. Our divergent views slowly, experience by experience, became more and more symbiotic. My calm nature grounded her explosiveness (An example: Once, we were climbing, I commented that she should try harder. She immediately started yelling at me and proceeded to throw both of her climbing shoes towards me. She was in the middle of a climb), which in turn filled me with excitement and desire for new things. We grew closer and closer together, while trying not to impair each other’s uniqueness and freedom. Life was beautiful and for the first time in my life I felt like I found a person that loves me as much as I loved her. The infinitive cuddles, sexual explorations (50 shades of gray style. I presume. Didn’t read the book), shibari, climbing, caring for a rescued cat.
But sadly living in Lisbon was slowly draining my savings, unable to find a job, not in small part due to not putting enough effort into finding one, I had to do something. Even before I visited her for the first time, more than a year ago, I planned to go to Canada. I had nothing to do in my life at that point and decided why not. Two months before I moved to Lisbon I had been given an IEC visa. The visa required me to enter Canada within a year of receiving it. That day came, and I went. For a year. The only image on my mind when I walked through departure gates in Lisbon airport was her sad face looking into my eyes wondering why I left her behind, asking me: Why poopy?
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