BANISHMENT 15: Long Distance Relationships

It's been a little over a year since I started dating Handsome Thunder. This is monumental news for me. I have problems deciding between mexican or chinese, refried or baked, so one could seriously wonder if I have such extensive commitment issues with takeout, how could I ever settle on a man - something that is far more tenuous and has potential repercussions infinitely worse than diarrhea.

The commitment to Handsome Thunder, however, is even more applause-worthy thanks to a thing called "state borders." Ever since day one of full-on-courtship, Handsome Thunder and I have resided in different parts of the union. I in the State of Music. He in the the State of Corn. Separated by the state of Really Appalling Rednecks.

At the beginning, the distance was fine. It was the I'm-getting-to-know-you-and-am-not-sure-if-we-should-be-in-the-I'm-in-a-relationship-on-Facebook-state-yet, so the miles were a little healthy. It gave us breathing room to figure things out. And just enough space for me to not hyperventilate of claustraphobia. But a year later and a deep dive into Oh Dear, I Think I Love You Lake,  the 561.44 miles, 9 hours and 4 minutes of roundtrip travel (not that I'm counting), are stinky cheese. Over the course of the past few months, I have developed a seriously unhealthy relationship with my car. I could write reports for the Department of Transportation, giving insight into Indiana's highway system. I know which gas stations have the cleanest bathrooms and what exits you can find Starbuckses on. I know where the cops hide, I know what times of day are traffic pits, and I know if I stop once for gas and once for bladder relief, I can likely clock the trip in 4 hours and 6 minutes.

But the worst thing about long distance relationships isn't just the driving. It's the part where you actually miss having a human being in front of you. One who can see all of your You-Definitely-Shouldn't-Have-Said-That Looks and can feel all your I-Love-You-Now-More-Than-Ever squeezes of the hand. Not to mention having to go to awkward professional functions stag because your plus-one is four plus-hours away, or having to call taxis from the airport because your ride is in another state. When normal people are getting off work and going to meet their significant other to make some dinner, watch the game, or do other socially-acceptable couply things, I sit down on the couch and think, "Hmm. Maybe I should read this catalog again. And then perhaps categorize my books by degree of depressive content. And then maybe do laundry one more time because I'm not very sure I got the color load clean the first time around."

For Lent if I could, I would give up long distance relationships. I would compress the state of Indiana to the size of a peanut and force all inhabitants to relocate to the Greater Nashville area. I would rid the world of Kentucky's potholes and not be allowed to operate vehicles for more than fifteen minute intervals. But as this is the real world and not the Truman Show, as Handsome Thunder lives in Indi-bloody-ana rather than You're-The-Only-Ten-I-See, I will continue to pack weekend bags for weekend trips to the Hoosier state and tell you, no fingers crossed, that the 561 miles is worth the 56 hours with my plus-one that lives plus-four hours away. And don't worry. As of yet, no repercussions worse than diarrhea.