Jun 17, 2014, 10:59AM

I Want a Boring Kind of Love

There’s comfort in predictability.

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In the past, I never wanted to know someone completely. How boring that must be, to know what your love is thinking before he even opens his mouth. While I still stand by that, time changes you in a way that stops you from being afraid to show all the dark parts of yourself to another. It happens one day when you’re making your bed for the umpteenth time, and realize you only need to make one half of it; that your constant searching for complexity and brooding mystery has left you emotionally void. You can never know exactly who a person is, but I’ve started to think it would be beautiful to feel what they feel, to move in a way that counterbalances them.

What I mean is, I want a boring type of love. The type where we switch sections of The New York Times as we sit across from each other at the dining room table we picked up together on a corner in Bed Stuy. The one with the broken right leg. I want the type of love that splits an everything bagel with vegetable cream cheese five days out of the week because that becomes our breakfast routine.

I want to be one of those people who go out just once a week to dive bars and spend the rest of the time entwined on the couch watching Netflix documentaries and discussing the social implications of shows like Orange Is The New Black. I want to be one of those people who creates a language only we understand; comprised of squeezing half-coherent sentences that convey “I adore you.”

I want to make systematic and rehearsed love to you when we’re so tired from the day but can’t resist our need for each other. The rhythmic consistency of it won’t make us feel like we’re getting stale: if anything it’ll be a reminder that we know what the other needs, reminding us that we could go out to some random bar and fuck people we won’t remember tomorrow, but instead we choose each other.

And boring sometimes means having the same fights, again and again about ridiculous things like who left the toilet seat up, or who didn’t put the cap back on the toothpaste. It will mean slamming doors, and wondering if we’re making a mistake by sticking with each other instead of seeking out new adventures. Boring means crawling back into bed every night and licking the emotional wounds we’ve endured together; even if they’re not ready to be healed. Boring means sticking around long enough to slowly uncover the underlying issues we’re facing. Because this type of feeling comes from the true intimacy of not caring whether or not you’re in your polar bear pajama pants. It comes from knowing that fancy dinners are nice every other month or so, but staying in and playing Scrabble by candlelight can be equally as enjoyable.

I dream of a love so constant that even in the boring moments, our lives blend together and the walls of polite facades melt into understanding. Being boring with someone is the warmth in the way they stroke your fingers with theirs, and it’s the puns you’ve heard a hundred times but still find funny. It’s ordering from the same takeout restaurant three times a month and knowing you need to order three egg rolls or yours will be stolen. It’s looking at that other person while waiting for the bus in the middle of a cold, rainy night and feeling like you’re already swaddled in your bed, wrapped safely in their warm arms. Being boring, I imagine, feels like you’re home—whenever and wherever you are with them.

—Follow Shawn Binder on Twitter: @ShawnBinder


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