boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend

Late last night, Clerk calls. We have planned for my firm to fly him to California for the weekend, instead of flying me home. I have justified this extraordinary boondoggle by planning meetings in LA both before and after the long weekend. Since the firm pays for me to fly business class on long flights, but owes him no such treatment, flying him instead of me actually saves the company more than $1,000.

However, as always, there is a possible wrinkle in our perfect plan. The client, because of extenuating circumstances, may cancel the meetings.

I tell Clerk this, and we joke that I should insist that the client not ruin my weekend. “Listen,” I say, pretending to speak to the client, “I’ve got this whole weekend planned...”

And he continues, as me, “...I’ve got my boyfriend flying out here, so don’t f--- it up!”

“Exactly!” I laugh, thinking maniacally, “Boyfriend!”

Boyfriend. I am happy, but also doubtful. I don’t think of him as my boyfriend...yet.

First, what a funny, funny term. I say, only facetiously, that I met a boy. Last week, I told my client, GC, that I had to get to DC on time for a boy. And though I often think of myself as a girl – a verygoodgirl, in fact –I doubt that Clerk thinks of himself as a boy. Maybe I’ll call him my guyfriend.

My boyfriend is someone I talk to every single day. Someone who knows what I’m doing and where I am, almost all the time. I talk to Clerk every few days, and he certainly doesn’t know what I’m doing every evening, or vice versa. Of course, in a long distance relationship, intimate knowledge of the other person’s whereabouts seems less likely and less necessary.

And most importantly, my boyfriend is someone who knows me well. Knows my habits, my neuroses, my faults. My passions, my hopes, my fears. I know he wants to move to Maine. He would love to be a judge or a real estate developer. He loves baseball and music and books. He thinks seriously about life and likes to plan it out. But does he know anything about me? That I love food and cooking and travel? That I love meandering through the farmer’s market, admiring produce and cheese and bread? That I want to live overseas again, to feel the excitement of learning a new language and culture and country? That I fear the erosion of my Hakka culture, and feel guilt for not trying harder to retain it?

I think, actually, that I know him, but doubt that he knows me. Then again, for me, with boys, boytoys, and boyfriends, hasn’t that always been the problem?