Hey y’all. It’s me, Julia. I’m here to own up to my past mistakes, which include promoting long-distance relationships to the general public. I was wrong. My boyfriend is behind me on this. Do not do as we have done.
There are language-sensitive members of my family who read this blog, so I’ve generally tried to keep my word choice at a nice, comfortable PG rating. Today, though, I will be moving into the realm of PG-13. That’s right, I have decided to use an F-bomb, permissible exactly once per PG-13 film, which I will interpret on this site as once per four or five blog posts. Are you ready? Mammy, plug your ears.
There, I said it. If you’re wondering if it felt good, I can tell you yes. Yes, it did.
I could’ve used the word to condemn such serious issues as racism, poverty, war, or famine, but, you know, I stand by this choice. Just don’t come at me, I’m afraid of confrontation.
Here’s the thing. When I wrote that last post on the unexpected perks of being long-distance, I was a scant three hour train ride away from my partner. Three hours? That’s nothing more than a nice evening stroll. I could sneeze, and I’d be in Paris. I didn’t know the meaning of the term long-distance. Incidentally, I also had (and have) a ways to go with my writing skills, but that’s another issue. It’s all about progress, I hope.
As of today, it’s been nearly three months since I’ve seen my boyfriend, with about a month and a half to go. The distance between the two of us is no longer a matter of a nice little train trip, but rather a wildly expensive 8+ hour flight itinerary. There’s also a time difference now, which is a fun new adventure. We have some added spice in the relationship now that there's a constant game of Where in Time is My Beloved? Carmen Sandiego should’ve prepared me better.
Don’t get me wrong, we’re lucky to have a date when we know we will see each other again, but still, it sucks. It’s turning me into a monster.
I no longer appreciate romantic love. I do not celebrate it. It is a nuisance. I sneer at happy couples on the street and roll my eyes at romantic comedies, not because I’ve recently come out of a harsh breakup or went on a string of bad dates, but because I have a perfectly wonderful partner who happens to be too. far. away.
To those of my friends in no-distance relationships, whether you’re living in the same house or the same city, know that I really am rooting for you. Truly. I’m happy for you. I just might not exactly feel it right now. There’ll be a hiatus on double-tapping your smiley Instagram pictures for a little while, and I may even roll my eyes at your lovey captions. But only when nobody else is looking, I swear.
I should also apologize for the monologue that will be going on, albeit safe inside my head, any time someone comes to me with relationship complaints. I assure you that, outwardly, I will be the supportive friend I hope I’ve always been. It’s just that deep within I will be a howling swamp creature.
Oh, so you and your girlfriend are having communication problems? Well. Try doing it over text with a 7 hour time difference on top of a language barrier, and then get back to me, okay? Your partner had a secret double life? I’m sorry about that, but at least when you went to confront him about his two other families, finding them only required a quick jog around the corner. I’d have to hop on a plane to find out the terrible truth about my partner! It’s fine! Count your blessings!
For the next month in a half, until I get back to France, the second largest absence in my life will clearly be a healthy sense of perspective.
Still, a monster, I am becoming a monster. You will be, too, if you get yourself wrapped up in the same kind of mess. I will stand on my soapbox and tell the whole world of my woes, as little the world cares (as little it should). I am here to tell you all to only date somebody who lives no farther away than the next block. Better yet, date your roommate. I’d advocate dating your twin if it weren’t for the obvious drawbacks. These days, the only criterion anybody should consider when picking a romantic partner is whether or not that person will at any point be farther than a half-hour drive away. If no, congratulations! When’s the wedding? If yes, chin up buddy. There’s plenty of fish in the sea.
You may be reading this thinking that the solution is simple. It’s staring me in the face, but I’m too much of a coward to see it. Just end the relationship! Problem solved! Joke’s on me, though, it turns out we love each other. A lot of good that’s doing us.
For the next month and a half, I’ll just go on moping to my sad songs playlist while staring out rainy windows. If it’s in the middle of the summer with nothing but sun in the forecast, a well-placed sprinkler will do. Complaining is clearly my other favorite comfort, potentially one on which I too heavily rely.
Can you blame me, though? If there were no more complaining, what else would I have to say?