You’ve been watching him at work for 2 months. You know he goes to the gym after work, and suddenly you do too. You tell him he hasn’t seen you there before because you’ve been working out at the ass crack of dawn, total gym rat.
Except what you’ve really been doing at the ass crack of dawn is being passed out with a half-empty 1.5 liter bottle of Costco Cabernet sitting on your nightstand, Flamin’ Hot Cheeto crumbs all over your sheets and Netflix asking you if you really intended to watch three hours straight of Bob’s Burgers. (When would that answer ever be no?)
You’ve done the necessary investigative research via google to know that 10 years ago he averaged 3.1 points per basketball game in high school and that his address is 4565 Cxxxxx Wxx Los Angeles, California (Thanks for nothing, Intelius. You’ll crack that address code later).
You’ve researched his favorite bands and wear a vintage “Everclear” shirt on Casual Fridays. You’ve tracked down his Twitter and know that he live tweeted the 2012 presidential debate to his 3 followers. You choose to pretend like you didn’t see that. He has no Instagram, is he a serial killer? You’ll worry about that later. You’ve got bigger problems right now, and that’s hiding the fact that you are batshit insane.
Between the concerts of bands you’ve never fucking heard of and taking private lessons from a basketball trainer, you’ve managed to weasel your way into his life. This poor son of a bitch is actually starting to fall for you. So at what point do you clue him into your dark secret?
Is it the first time he tries to get intimate with you?
Him: “Baby, I’ve wanted this for so long.”
You: “Me too, I Facebook stalked your ex-girlfriend and she seems like a freak, so I’m guessing you are too. Mama like.”
But that’s no time for talking, you’ll wait.
Is it the first time he tells you he loves you?
Him: “Baby, I love you with all my heart.”
You: “I know your social security number and have the paint colors of our children’s rooms picked out.”
You don’t want to change the subject, so maybe you’ll hold out just a little longer.
Suddenly you’re married with five children and going out for a fancy Friday night date at the Olive Garden.
You’ve had three glasses of their cheapest Merlot and by the fourth you’ve asked for them to add ice, because it’s summer. When your iced Merlot arrives (you will make it a thing), there’s a black fly sitting complacently on an ice cube. This may be no chardonnay, but all you can hear in your head is Alanis Morissette’s Ironic, and all you can see is that smug black fly staring back at you. And suddenly, it’s time.
Your eyes grow wide, your veins pulsing with alfredo sauce and adrenaline. You channel Teresa Giudice and flip the table (obviously not before grabbing one last breadstick), before somewhat coherently screaming that you just want to be able to take a shit in peace. You storm off, and that was all she wrote. Until next week’s date at Red Lobster.
So when you ask yourself how long you should wait until you clue your boyfriend in that you are, in fact, batshit insane, I leave you with this piece of advice: keep that skeleton locked tight in your closet next to the bags of Oreo’s and handkerchiefs soaked in the tears of your failed relationships, because chances are you didn’t hide it all that well anyway before your midlife, wine induced meltdown in the middle of an Olive Garden. And know this: you do deserve to take a shit in peace every once in a while.