I had an opportunity to return to my former off-grid residence this weekend. The drive in was a bit bumpier than I remembered, possibly owing to the additional 160-ish lbs. in the front seat. After a few bangs to the muffler I got my bearings and sailed on down the 2-mile gravel drive to the Gooch. Welcome home.
The Collector and I started our evening with a hike, hoping to squeak it in just before the sun fell. The overgrown undergrowth closed in on us and we lost our way. Some people find adventure in situations such as these, others fall to desperation and death fantasies. I ascribe to the former.
When we got back, I worked on “love tapping” the stove to get the propane moving and then set about thawing some frozen root stew. I wondered how I had ever gotten saddled into the meal-maker position. Me, who used to shy from any part of the kitchen that didn’t have to do with chocolate chip cookies. The oven was always my territory, but now I care-take the whole range, though I like to outsource the shopping as much as possible.
I love being the bread maker in this duo, but I’m also an equal part breadwinner. And it can be difficult to shake the feminism that tears at my imaginary apron strings and internally screams, “TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF, DAMMIT.”
Getting away from the big house was a great idea, but I had imagined we would be forced to spend time together: connecting, talking, sorting out, hiking, playing, being next to each other. But transplanting bodies to a new place doesn’t seem to shake off our independent bullshit, the old problems, which we still had to wade through like on every other day. He’s still in physical pain, I’m still in emotional pain, and even in a tiny twin we find a way to not touch each other.