The Evolution of We

I was born on January 1st in the year 1982. I went to 12 long years of Catholic school. I played soccer obsessively. I grew up across the street from a farm. I spent winters exploring area ski resorts. I went to college at RIT. I decided to work part time at a bike shop and a running shop while I figured out my post-college plans. I have moved no less than 6 times in the past 7 years. I hiked across the Alps. I’ve had 15 jobs. I have been many places, done many things, and for almost thirty years, I’ve been an I. I’ve used singular pronouns, like “I,” “me,” “my,” “one, please.”

At some point, I remember introducing the word “we” into my vocabulary on a more regular basis. Suddenly, “we” were going for a bike or going dancing. A friend once asked, “who is this ‘we’ – you got a mouse in your pocket or something?” We was a silly way of creating the illusion of commaradarie; togetherness. I am an I. I was born alone and I’ll die alone and this “we” stuff seemed as ridiculous as a mouse in my pocket. Suddenly though, my view changed.

These days, we go to dinner. We do the dishes, we debate, we laugh, we play games, we watch movies, we play with guinea pigs. We are moving to Pittsburgh. Sometimes I don’t know what this means – becoming a we. Some people do it naturally, willfully, with joy. For others the process is more awkward and bumpy. There are days when the w word flows freely from my lips as if I have always been a we. Other days I’m an I again and forget to tell the other party about evening plans.

When we find a partner (said as if it was something we’ve been searching for since the day we were born), we all react differently. Some sigh with relief, others dance on beaches in delight, and others dig their heels in, grasping firmly to the illusion of independence that they’ve been hiding behind for most of their adult life.

When you’re a we, some things are easier. Half of the we can do the dishes after the other half cooked the dinner. You can dance to slow songs without drawing too much attention to yourselves. You can share the driving and the burden of pain. You can take care of each other when you’re sick.

When you’re a we, some things are harder. You have to make choices taking into account an individual who, unfortunately, cannot yet read your mind. You can’t assume the other half wants to have an activity-filled evening. You have to share the bed.

We help each other with problems, groom each other, move furniture to prepare for a party. Being a team is essential, in my opinion. Outdoor activities with a partner also makes it a lot more fun. You can play silly games outloud and laugh and talk and pass the time as you trudge up hill, one tiring step after another. Being a we isn’t necessary in this case, but it certainly makes it more enjoyable.

So, the other morning, when Liz and I were barely awake she said, “You’re really smoking me out of bed,” I laughed, sleepily, and rolled over as far as I could to accommodate her presence in her bed. The next day, over dinner, which I made while she worked and did dishes, we laughed about her comment which came from a place of love, morning delirium and a desire to have this we thing last longer than a few months in a shared bed, as uncomfortable or delightful as that may be.

Last week, we danced in her living room to “Home” by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros (much to my insistence) with smiles on our faces and love in our eyes. It didn’t make the pain of the end of a tough day any less difficult, but it did make it a bit more enjoyable.

As I evolve into a we, I realize that it will make many things easier. It also might make some things harder. It will, however, hopefully make life more fun and filled with love. We’ll see how this move in goes, but having witnesses to our sometimes funny and weird lives is something I think 'we' both look forward to.