I'm with the right guy now

My man and I survived our first real trip together, and here are a couple of things I learned about couplehood ... and myself.

First, it's OK to want - and take - some alone time. While he took care of his business, I strolled the streets of Georgetown, got a pedi- and manicure in Sharlington and watched a couple of Russians play speed chess in Borders (I couldn't even play checkers that fast.).

We spent the bulk of our time together, tooling around D.C. and its suburbs and discovered some terrific restaurants. We did two runs along the Potomac, visited the Jefferson and Lincoln memorials, checked out a couple of museums and had some romantic together time.

Museums. That brings me to my second revelation: I prefer to do museums solo. It isn't that I don't want to share the experience with my beloved, but I want to see what I want to see at the pace at which I want to see it. He informed me, "I can do about two hours in a museum, and then I'm toast." Or something like that.

Don't get me wrong. I am not someone who has to read every placard and ponder every artifact. In fact, I did the Rick Steves half-day tour of the Louvre in Paris and saw all the highlights: Mona Lisa, Winged Victory, Vinus de Milo, some Boticellis and Michelangelos. While it's possible to take days to tour every square foot of the Louvre, I felt duly enriched after four hours.

Next time he and I do a museum, we'll divide and conquer, just like we do when we hit Nordstrom's Last Chance - he hits men's shoes, I hit women's shoes and we find each other somewhere around women's swimsuits and men's casual wear. Need more time? Cool, I'll get a hot chocolate and plant myself on a bench.

The last thing I learned is, by the time you take your first trip together, you'd better be over the whole I-don't-poo-when-he's-around thing. I once took a romantic weekend away with a guy and somehow managed to avoid moving my bowels for three entire days. It wasn't a conscious decision; fear impacted me, you could say. "What if he finds out ... I produce ... foul odors?!" I learned from that weekend away that if I'm not ready for a man to find out that I'm HUMAN, then, I'm not ready to spend three days with him. And he's probably the wrong guy for me.

Let's just say, I'm with the right guy now. And leave it at that. :-)

I'll wait for the humans to cross

Just when you think you know someone, take a trip with them. I don't mean a weekend away by car where you hole up for two days in a romantic hotel room. I mean, plan a trip and TRAVEL. Fly, book a hotel, rent a car and see some sights.
My beloved, whom I've been ga-ga over for nearly a year and a half (off and on), took me to one of his hometowns - Washington D.C. - this weekend. Our first real vacation together.
I've always thought of my man as a rather laid back kind of guy, save for a few curse-fests in the car when some stupid driver interrupts our route. We all get a little hot-headed behind the wheel from time to time, right?
I was surprised and somewhat amused to learn that my guy is one of THOSE people. The ones who, when the airplane announces boarding, stands up and starts moving toward the gate. Meanwhile, I'm of the ilk who sits in the lobby until all THOSE people get on board. I mean, why shuffle my way to the gate and down the breezeway so I can sit on the plane a little longer?
I subscribe to the same philosophy when deplaning. Unless I have a tight connection, I'll sit back and wait until all those Type As get their bags and bump each other down the aisle. I relax, grab my stuff and sashay to my destination.
Not my man. He's up and motioning me to follow him. Hurry up, his face says. We're in a hurry? I ask. Why? So we can stand around the baggage carousel a little longer?
We secure our rental car, and I am the designated driver because I'm the one with a credit card and insurance. The Alamo attendant directs us to a row of cars and tells us to choose whichever one we want. We select a Chevy Impala.
As we drive away, my man comments on how big the car is. Maybe we should have gotten a Malibu, he says. This car feels too big, he says. Are you OK driving this? he asks. Several times. You look so small driving this big boat, and you make me nervous because you almost ran us off the road back there, he tells me. That's because I wasn't paying attention, I said. Now I'm paying attention. I'm fine.
And he navigates me through the streets of D.C. to our hotel in Georgetown. Turn here, he says. There are people in the crosswalk, I say. You have to be aggressive here, he says. This isn't Phoenix. People are different here. Still, I say, I'll wait for the humans to cross.
As we approach a fork in the road, he says, "stay here." What is here, I ask? I need you to say "left" or "right," I tell him. "I don't know what 'here' means."
Ever been boating with another couple and witness them verbally tear each other's hair out as they put their vessel in the water or dock it at the end of the day? 
This is the stuff that builds relationships. We get together based on physical attraction, then we woo each other with romantic dates, flowers and sappy love letters. Those butterfly moments in the beginning are no indication of whether the two of you have what it takes to last a lifetime. It's those toilet-seat-up/toilet-seat-down, cap-on-the-toothpaste, backseat-driver, the-plug-isn't-in-the-boat-you-moron moments that tell us if we have longevity.
If my man survives through Wednesday without me running off the road and killing us both ... or ... shoving his backseat-driving butt out of the moving car ... we might have what it takes ...