Comfy as a big sweatshirt. A Febreezed sweatshirt.

Comfort is a big thing to me. I need to be comfortable in relationships. I need to be comfortable in my job. I need to be comfortable in my apartment. With people. With friends. In my clothes.

Basically, it's a big deal. It takes me a while to feel comfortable. When I started living with my college roommate, I wasn't comfortable until all the firsts were out of the way: the first disagreement, the first paying of the bills, the first cleaning of the apartment, the first witnessing a fight between my then-boyfriend.

When I started living with The Fiance, I wasn't comfortable until he'd seen me cry, until we'd had our first disagreement, and until we turned the air conditioning on. Then I was comfortable.

But there's a line, and it's fuzzy. On the right side of the line is the "I think this is still kind of weird" phase. You're polite. You're clean. You do nice things. You go out of your way to not bump into each other in the hall. At the line, it's "This feels right." And on the left, "You really, really, really need to get acquainted with the clothes hamper. Now. And by 'clothes hamper,' I don't mean 'Febreeze.'" On the left is spills on the carpet. On the left is leaving a mess in the kitchen. Not taking out the trash when it starts to smell bad. Not remembering there are clothes in the washer .... for a few days.

When the line gets crossed, I'm immediately quiet. An angry quiet. I can only imagine being 75 and still picking up dirty socks. (I'll housetrain him yet.)

But, the comfortable part about it is (read: why I don't kill him), after that angry quiet, it's OK. And happy. And laughable. It took a while to get to that point, but I'm here. I'm lounging. I'm gellin'. I'm comfy.