poopie hands

my first love said that communication was the most important thing in a relationship. i thought about this 'most important thing' and that surely love, respect, honesty and the ilk (this was pre-WHALES days) were more essential. but, during the long time since, i've learned that this precocious boy was spot-on, for without communication there can be no building of all that other stuff. and even the most ardent animal attraction can be snuffed out in an instant if further connection is not made and maintained. communication is no easy thing--it requires work, sometimes a great amount of it, and if you don't put forth the effort you may rue it. i have many stories of this sort of regret, and it's with a heavy heart that i share this one.

years ago, while abroad, i fell madly, instantly in love with a feral australian. i'd spent the night in his hut after drunken revelry (full moon?). the following morning i called to him from the toilet for tissue. he replied that he didn't use toilet paper. this was not especially shocking, and i did without. but upon further inspection i discovered his bathroom was utterly bare: no shampoo, no soap, no towel--nada. i told him i had a headache, that i required coffee, and fled. i spent the remainder of my time on the tiny island rejecting his advances, leaving him bewildered and hurt. i felt awful, being that we shared such a beautiful beginning, of passionate, animated conversation, giggle fits and make-out sessions in the sand. and i could have said--i should have said: 'i adore you, i really do--stop touching me--but i can't get past the fact that you have poopie hands.' and, simple, just like that: problem solved, romance resumed. but even when he'd tell funny stories, eliciting guffaws, or bring me cocktails, or when i'd see him dancing all crazy-like about the bonfire, i couldn't do it. i just couldn't see having that convo.