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| Worried selfie |
Almost two years later, I'm living on an island again, this time a floating dot so minuscule that it makes the original island feel like a continent in comparison.
Although I was deeply integrated in local life on that first island, I remained largely isolated, like some lone bubble of foreign yearning for communication, conversation, culture, wider horizons...
At one point, I worried my sense of humor might atrophy to the size of a raisin – and my heart with it – if I retreated even further into my own head.
The antidote to those pesky concerns was a toss between writing more bad poetry in Islandish or unleashing The Ideal Wife Giveaway onto the unsuspecting.
For a while, I became a modern day mermaid with a modem, broadcasting my mating call from the North Atlantic.
In the summer of 2011, I left the island, unsure whether I would return or not. Upon landing in London, unexpected work made a nomad out of me again and I became alternatively transatlantic and multi-continental at a moment's notice.
Then the man – who came as a package complete with feline life partner – appeared in my comment box, unleashing torrents of mutual curiosity and inboxes worth of chats and emails. We decided to try and build a form of human interaction independent of appearances so we kept our communication strictly textual and chose not to exchange a single photograph or speak on the phone.
By the time we first set eyes on each other on Christmas Day 2011, we were already smitten.
After ping-ponging between Europe and North America for a while and still very much in love, I caught another bad case of islanditis in July 2012. This time, I elected to set up camp in the armpit of North America – close enough not to be half a world away from my now partner, far enough for our relationship to either sink or grow fins and learn to swim on its own, and sufficiently different to make good copy.
But the big plan didn't quite work out – the limping news outlet I was working for started showing signs of fatal financial exhaustion, the kindly landlady who was all sweetness and light by email suffered the most astonishing personality transplant within 5 weeks of my arrival and island community life turned out to be far more challenging than expected.
By the time we first set eyes on each other on Christmas Day 2011, we were already smitten.
After ping-ponging between Europe and North America for a while and still very much in love, I caught another bad case of islanditis in July 2012. This time, I elected to set up camp in the armpit of North America – close enough not to be half a world away from my now partner, far enough for our relationship to either sink or grow fins and learn to swim on its own, and sufficiently different to make good copy.
But the big plan didn't quite work out – the limping news outlet I was working for started showing signs of fatal financial exhaustion, the kindly landlady who was all sweetness and light by email suffered the most astonishing personality transplant within 5 weeks of my arrival and island community life turned out to be far more challenging than expected.
Not to be outdone by adverse circumstances, I reluctantly dropped off the internets and reinvented myself as a multilingual hospitality skivvy, a move that proved so spectacularly successful that I ended up filing a civil action lawsuit against my now ex-employer in November 2012. Cue stress overload and doctors playing prescription drugs roulette with me for a while before finally suggesting a break from the island might do me good.
I came back to life and civilization clutching a cup of Tim Horton's coffee in a Canadian airport.
These days, the blog that was about being frequently overwhelmed has morphed into a repository for dust bunnies and occasional outrage. Although it's undeniable that the much hallowed happy-ever-after got battered and bruised by distance, separation and arms never quite long enough to give oneself a satisfying hug, our love grew stronger than ever.
After 173 days apart, my partner and I were reunited for a fortnight on Dec 24.
To dent my cynicism some more, we also celebrated Valentine's Day together for the second year in a row by going to watch the 1966 Batman movie at Seattle's Cinerama a couple of weeks later. Because there's nothing like men in spandex, labels on every prop and double-entendres to rekindle romance.
Plus Adam West. In the flesh.
Lastly, I couldn't stand writing off the best part of 2012 as a monumental waste of time so I am currently trying to recycle my various island shenanigans into print. Should anything ever see the light of day, it'll probably make you cry until you laugh, or vice versa.
In April 2013, my partner and I got married in Seattle, WA under the watchful eyes of two friends, a judge and a glass octopus with a broken and glued back together tentacle (and 7 intact ones).
In April 2013, my partner and I got married in Seattle, WA under the watchful eyes of two friends, a judge and a glass octopus with a broken and glued back together tentacle (and 7 intact ones).
