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Rebecca

Before Levi even met me, he lived in Salt Lake and knew my older brother. When my brother found out Levi was moving to New York, he said, “You should meet my little sister. She’s a cool girl if you can handle the drama.” 

And that, I suppose, is how I found myself on a first date with Levi. It was that night, over non-alcoholic drinks at the Hudson Hotel, that Levi informed me he’d already “dealt with my emotions.” He said he knew my kind. He knew that my irrational fluctuations could pose problems, but he was so practiced at dramatic women that our relationship would survive. Thanks to him—not even I could screw this up.

He has since been disappointed to learn how rational I am. We had some friends over recently and one of them—a therapist—said that I was the most emotionally healthy and stable person she knows. I thanked for her confirming my suspicions.

This is why this weekend, I didn’t get offended when Levi said something inoffensive. Nor did I get embarrassed after that. And my embarrassment did not cause me to accuse him of things he didn’t do. I did not start crying and using phrases like “I don’t know,” and “it’s not that” over and over again. And most of all, I was not still throwing that tantrum come Monday morning.

I’m just so linear. Logical. Clear-headed as ever. Steady.

It almost feels tragic that all of Levi’s patience and understanding gets wasted on such a sensible woman. 

And that, really, is why I’m loving the new arched back, red face, holler-holler-scream of little Adelaide when I take away the third tube of chapstick she’s ruined today.

“Levi,” I call out, “come quick. It’s your specialty.”

 

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