She says she has never been happier.
She's probably right. She often is.
She's gifted with a completely unobstructed sense of clarity, seemingly unweighted by the central enervating pillars of my existence — alcoholism and anxiety. It is my fragile foundation that supports such painfully lingering thoughts. Days of thoughts. Days of obsession and crushing conclusions. As such, when she says she has never been happier, it's natural for me to deduce she's less happy now.
Understandable.
Life creeps towards clutter. And we're dragged into inevitable frangible loops of responsibility, conflicting decisions and unavoidable consequences. Into a world of fine print and devilish details. Comparable home and contents insurance deals. Mortgage offset calculators and ovulation schedules. Cat shit on the carpet and the politics of friendships. Life insurance, health insurance, no claim bonuses. Death.
But back then, everything was isolated to a forty-three square metre apartment in Stanmore.
Two bedrooms, one with a built-in wardrobe, one bathroom. The celebrated beneficiary of every dollar we'd managed to scrape together for the previous two years in our disgustingly unsatisfying debut "professional" jobs. A perfectly ordinary, red-brick hovel. The exciting contradiction to our sheltered suburban childhoods. Snoring homeless gents sleeping one off on the front patch of grass, a debilitated carpark at the rear. And inside, an ugly purple wall we painted beige. That washing machine we trudged back from Coogee. "Free to a good home". And this fast morphed into a great home. Happy poor us, with a rusted two-burner barbecue, a case of "whatever's on special", the Wednesday night Docket Deal from the nearby noodle house and $8 jugs of Coopers Green at the then-unpopular-and-unrenovated local, The Sly Fox.
But for the most part, the weekends were wasted right here. The toxic blend of an absence of air-conditioning and the cracked-leather surface of the inherited leather couch insured our attachment. As did bank account totals that floated around figures far too insufficient to allow regular entertainment beyond torrented television shows and shared stories of workplace woes, as viewed from the first step of the career ladder.
But here was also where she started sharing salvation honours with short, emerging streaks of self-assurance. The like of which led to bended knee propositions in the tiny hallway outside that jumbled linen closet. A whole new chapter opened, welcomed alongside unprecedented disorder. And as important, here was where we — ahead of all our own measured expectations and spreadsheet calculations — pulled away from debt via tactical poise, promotions and pay-rises. Where we earned fresh perspectives on personal values, merged savings accounts, consolidated superannuation funds and set Sunday alarms for Alan Kohler updates. Where we shared, spewed and stumbled into belated maturity.
Where we became adults. For better or worse.