Ebony's School of Torture

There is no question that my girlfriend Ebony is what some guys would call “a handful.” And before you think I’m some misogynistic jerk, I don’t mean it in that piggish way that guys refer to the size of a woman’s breasts. Not that Ebony’s breasts aren’t great—in fact, they’re the best pair that I’ve encountered in my thirty-seven years of well, having the awesome privilege of experiencing women’s breasts.

Now I’m starting to sound like I’m obsessed with boobs when I’m honestly more of a butt guy. Okay, let’s be real. I am a fan of women’s bodies in general, and especially Ebony’s.

But this isn’t a story about what Ebony looks like, it’s about what makes her a handful and how I have survived her hijinks. So far.

One of the things that first drew me to Ebony was her sense of adventure, her way of wholly immersing herself in the moment. It’s hard for me to be “fully present” as she lovingly reminds me when I get caught up pondering all the things that weigh on my mind. Things like work, taking care of my grandmother on Sundays, driving my neighbor’s kid to school when she’s too sick to take him, basically making sure no one around me is suffering if they don’t have to. I admit that I am distracted by these thoughts of other people, but you’d think Ebony would appreciate that I’m a good guy, rather than some self-absorbed douche who is obsessed with his abs.

Ebony sees it differently, though. She gets frustrated when she catches me stressing about “other people’s problems;” she even gave me some famous book called “Codependent No More.” I couldn’t relate AT ALL and I felt like the whole book was an excuse for people to feel justified in remaining selfish, soulless individualists. I don’t see anything wrong with trying to make other people’s lives better. I know people don’t always feel comfortable asking for help, which is why I offer it. And why Ebony thinks I’m codependent.

I can tell she sometimes resents the time I spend helping other people, even though she’s told me she admires my charity work. She got super annoyed the other day when I told her I couldn’t go with her on her latest polar plunge adventure. Between you and me, even if I hadn’t been busy, there’s no way in a million years I would have jumped into that freezing lake. Ebony knew I had already promised my friend I’d help him move, but she still insisted on calling me “all work and no fun.” But then she really upped the insult ante by bringing out the big guns: she called me BORING.

Once Ebony thinks something, or someone, is boring, she’s done. She begins to feel suffocated by routine, worrying that she’s living some crushing adult life of someone else’s making. Even if she’s starting to like this new life. I know this because she told me that’s the reason her previous relationships never worked out. I know deep down that the real reason is that she hadn’t met me yet. I’m not saying that to be cocky, I just happen to believe in fate.

Lately, Ebony’s been on a bit of a self-improvement kick. She got inspired when she was working at a self-help conference and decided she needed to find her true purpose. Ebony was determined to no longer waste time on petty pursuits that “stole her joy.” At this same magical retreat, she apparently had an epiphany and realized I was her soulmate. Which is exactly what I’ve just been telling you I’ve known all along.

Through this flash of insight, Ebony decided she didn’t deserve me because she was always pushing me away. I could see her making conscious efforts to connect with me and talk about her feelings, which is something she never would have done before. That brought us closer for a while until she, guess what? Got bored. She was frustrated that I wouldn’t go with her to her weekly pub trivia night (she only asked me when her best friend couldn’t go). I couldn’t stand the thought of being around a bunch of drunken assholes who looked up all the answers on their cell phones anyway. At least that’s what she told me happened last time when she had vowed to never go again.

She also made this crazy pact with herself that she would stop apologizing all the time. Must be working because she hasn’t apologized to me ever, not for a damn thing. But that’s also what I respect about her. Ebony lives by her own rules and never questions her actions. She actually does consider other people’s feelings before she ultimately makes her own decision, without fear or need to justify. I only wish I could be more like that! My whole career in risk management is the exact opposite of the way Ebony lives. I am required to weigh the consequences of all options before choosing the least risky possibility that will have minimal impact. Ebony’s life is all about having maximum impact.

I just remembered that Ebony apologized to me the other day! She admitted that she hadn’t considered my feelings when she brought home dinner for herself, not realizing I would be home. Um, I’m home every night and am always hungry. But she apologized, and that’s what’s important. I noticed she’s also been trying to take up less space in the closet and I know that’s hard because she has more shoes than any other person I have ever known. And I’ve met a lot of people.

Ebony really was trying, and that seemed like more she had been able to do for anyone before me. It was time to hold up my end of the deal to not be so “boring.” After she sat through watching yet another National Geographic show with me (when I knew she’d rather watch Severance) it dawned on me that she really did love me. And I needed to try harder to not bore her to death.

***

I thought I was doing a respectable job of shedding my homebody lifestyle in my efforts to squelch her boredom. A month ago, Ebony and I went to our town’s version of Coachella, and I didn’t hate it. Then I shocked the hell out of her by proposing that we get matching tattoos. Before I could change my mind, she drove us to Yelp’s highest rated tattoo artist where we did the deed. Some guys would think I was whipped for doing the whole cheesy matching tattoo thing—I just considered myself lucky. I won’t embarrass myself by describing my ink except to tell you that it’s way better than the Sponge Bob Square Pants tattoo my buddy dared me to get ten years ago. When I was very, very drunk.

Last week, I allowed Ebony to twist my arm into going with her to karaoke night. I let her think I was totally freaking out, doing something so completely outside of my comfort zone. All for her. But the truth was, I was a ringer for any competition when I broke into my signature Johnny Cash “Ring of Fire” rendition. I had some subtle dance moves that went along with it and let’s just say, they got the job done. Ebony couldn’t wait to get me out of there to rip my clothes off. Who’s boring now?

I even let Ebony convince me to do the restaurant alphabet challenge. She saw it on some reddit thread where you’re supposed to go to a restaurant that starts with the letter A, then work your way all through the alphabet. We almost quit on “U” until we found the “Ugly Elk” restaurant. Yup, I had an elk burger. I did enjoy myself but I might have had some food poisoning from the “L” restaurant. The good news is that it helped me break my twenty-day streak of eating nothing but kale salad for dinner. Even I had to admit I was entering old man zone with that routine.

Hopefully you’re getting the picture of what I’m willing to sacrifice to make my relationship work. I could tell Ebony was surprised by my newfound openness to embark on these adventures; she knows how escapade averse I usually am. I could tell she liked this other side of me and I was getting glimpses of her true self as she revealed her more vulnerable side. I no longer felt her pulling away and she even started talking about the future with me. I was feeling secure in this more mature version of our relationship, even if it meant my having to do a lot of seemingly regressive and time-consuming activities.

I had proven my worth and devotion by subjecting myself to even more exhausting activities that I haven’t even mentioned yet: Drag Brunch, bowling for bread (don’t ask), a picnic in the botanical gardens, going to three different zoos while Ebony was in search of some alligator she had seen on the Discovery Channel, going to the lamest, easiest Escape Room on Earth, and playing DJ when she had her girlfriends over for a dance party. Oh, and I even went to that stupid bar trivia night with her and impressed her with my 90’s hair band knowledge.

I was feeling so secure in our relationship status that I allowed myself to entertain the delusion that I could retreat from these “best boyfriend in the world” outings. It was starting to feel like Ebony was inventing excuses to drag me to these horrible-sounding excursions that even she had no interest in—all in the name of spending time together. Which is a good thing, but I could think of plenty of more entertaining ways I would prefer to spend our time together.

Ebony eventually acknowledged my weariness when she cheerfully announced our next adventure.

“You have been such a trooper, I swear. There’s just this one last thing that I think will really bond us. I know you’ll love it because it’s creative. And we’ll have something to remember the night by!”

There was a strange gleam in her eye that I knew not to trust. I will grudgingly admit though, that I had had fun on our adventures, as frivolous and expensive as they often were. Most importantly, they did seem to be bringing us closer together.

“Okay, fine. I’ll do this. But I get the next two weeks off so I can get some work done in my grandma’s yard,” I acquiesced. “You won’t give me even a hint as to where we’re going?”

“Nope. I want to see the look on your face when you realize what we’re doing!”

We drove in companionable silence while I tried to conjure thoughts of what nightmare was in store for me. We found a parking spot right in front of the most pastel pink storefront that the city planning division would allow in our quaint downtown. I had a bad feeling about this, especially as Ebony grabbed a giant sunhat from the back seat, like something my grandma would have worn to a tea party. We headed straight toward the pink building and through the picture window I could see a bunch of women gathered around tables, wearing similar looking hats. My sense of gloom was growing as Ebony guided me through the door.

We walked inside and I was immediately greeted by the most God-awful smell known to man: patchouli, intermixed with a nauseating aroma of rose with vanilla undertones. I instinctively scrunched my nose and stifled my gag reflex as I took in my surroundings. Chappell Roan was singing about, of course, some Pink Pony Club as I was assaulted by an ubiquitously pink room. How can there possibly be so many shades of pink?

And then something else began to enter the threshold of my awareness. I realized in a moment of sheer panic that I was the only man in a sea of sundress-clad, giggling women soaked in a cocktail of hairspray and bubble gum. I know I sound totally sexist and as if I’m stereotyping women, but they were the ones creating this completely male-repellent diorama!

I couldn’t figure out why Ebony had brought me here, other than to torture me of course. All I could see were those chuegy signs that I keep hearing us Millennials can’t get enough of: “Home is Where Love Shines,” of course “Live, Laugh, Love” but then my personal favorite (sarcasm) “Candles Light the Way.” Uh oh, it was now becoming clear why there was a sign about candles. I was in a freaking store entirely devoted to candles, and these women in dresses and hats were here to contribute to the candle overpopulation problem. My horror intensified when I understood my fate: I was brought here, against my will, to make candles!

You may think I’m being overdramatic, but I hate candles with a passion, not just because of the horrid, sweet, fake smell, but because of how damaging they are to the environment. Hadn’t Ebony noticed that I didn’t have a single candle in my apartment? Especially since she’s obviously so into candles.

It became painfully evident that I had to take a stand, to grow a pair. I had paid my penance and it was time to graduate from Ebony’s School of Torture. I am all about compromise and shared activities, but this isn’t what I signed up for.

I marched over to Ebony, who was already choosing the scents that she would be adding to her torch of toxicity.

“That’s it! I can’t be a part of this atrocity!” I announced, triumph clear in my voice.

“Oh Steve, you’re so funny! The candle isn’t for you anyway. I thought we could make one for your grandma. I even found a geranium scent—isn’t that her favorite?” She gave me that look, both demure and totally alluring at the same time. Shit, she was being considerate and thoughtful.

“Er, I don’t think a candle is anything I would ever give my grandma, though,” was my weak protest.

“Fine, it can be from both of us. And guess what? I found a cedar scent! You know how much I love that scent on you. I’m making one to go next to my bed, so I can be reminded of you every night when you’re out of town for work.” Wow, this woman is good.

There wasn’t a strong enough scent in the universe that would wash away my shame as I found myself taking the seat next to her. What was happening? I was supposed to be walking in the other direction, out the door. As if on autopilot, I donned the “Don’t Drip on Me” pink apron and waited for my instructions. I prayed Ebony wouldn’t post this on Instagram.