Being in a relationship, I learn plenty about myself. I don’t give my routines and preferences much thought when I’m on my own, but then a Plus One comes along and labels my habits “quirky.” I wish more of those moments were noted with a tone that regarded me as some precious gem, a true original to marvel at. Typically, however, my atypical tendencies elicit a frowny squint and a thought bubble hovering over his head: “Why?”
I don’t need to offer examples. I don’t want to feel your virtual frowns or have to block your virtual messages to my boyfriend: “Run, Evan, run!”
I’m an acquired taste. Not everyone loves liver either.
So it was nice yesterday morning when me just being me garnered a smile. He was in the bathroom, doing some bathroom thing, I don’t know, probably primping his already perfect hair, testing its bounce or making it rise two percent higher, and I’d figured it would be a while. (We are both hair-obsessed so that’s a whole realm left off the Quirk List, thank god.) I’d switched from scrolling Twitter, searching fruitlessly for a vegan breakfast pic or an “I’m on an African safari and you’re not” photo to like and instead moseyed over to YouTube. I’d typed in Barry White and selected “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe,” a snippet of which I’d heard the night before as we watched “You People” on Netflix, Evan reduced to snoring through the last twenty minutes. (One body turn, a blanket tug, wait three seconds and, Hello, Dreamland. It’s a habit that draws pure envy from me instead of annoyance.)
A snippet was not enough. (Is it disco by default just because it’s catchy, danceable and from the ’70s?) I needed the full song to acknowledge the lingering earworm, to let the tune fully embody my being. I turned up the volume on my laptop, ruing the fact that bonkers high stereos are a relic that peaked shortly after Barry White’s chart prime. The laptop sound system would suffice. My arms lifted, my feet clomped in search of the beat and my hips swayed. I smiled and lip synced along, not wanting my off-key gargling to detract from Mr. White’s distinct bass which I hadn’t fully appreciated as a kid. Barry’s deep voice, like that of Marvin the Martian, freaked Tween Me out. Maybe it was on account of being raised in an environment of women’s voices—my mother, every primary school teacher and Karen Carpenter. Apologies, Barry. You’re a true marvel now. (Marvin the Martian? Still makes me shudder.)
I danced. Bedroom dancing has always brought bliss. It’s one of my most uninhibited forms of expression, away from judging eyes in a gay bar, no chance of knocking over someone’s gran at a wedding reception, no indignity from being denied service at a café after swaying “aggressively” when The Andrews Sisters pop up on their kitschy soundtrack. In the bedroom, it’s just me and the music.
Enter Evan.
He didn’t join in but neither did I stop. Barry still had a couple more cracks at the chorus and I needed to absorb all of it, the buildups, the rising beats and the sense that this was musical euphoria. Evan smiled and watched a little while going about his business, responding to a text, getting ready for brunch. And yet the song and the feeling added exclamations to the orchestrations as the moment went from Barry and me to Barry, Evan and me. I’d tossed any tendency to self-edit; I knew I was in a frown-free zone. The song’s joy became my joy and, I’d like to think, Evan’s joy, too.
Dancing together is lovely. Dancing on my own (without the slightest Robyn-esque edge) in front of my guy can be just as grand.
Some quirks are good.
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