This past Saturday I told my beloved spouse what I have found to be true since I moved into my own apartment in December: I may not be able to live in the same house with him (at least not the house we own now), but I want to stay married to him and build a new relationship. Happily, he’s good with that. We are truly married and want to stay that way, even if at the moment we sleep in different zip codes.
There’s a Buffy-shaped place in my heart and life that no one else could ever fill, and I don’t want it to be empty. I’m better with him than without him. He likes it that we support each other. We have some stuff to learn, but after almost 30 years together, it seems worth it.
For now we are LAMPs: Living Apart Married People.
Someone please tell me that there’s a better acronym than that for what we’re doing. It makes me think of the Major Award in A Christmas Story. But maybe that’s sort of apropriate; we are both still feeling a bit FRA-GIL-E.
I love you, Buffy.
 Besides, he understands what I mean when I say, “42,” “It all hangs together,” and “JTSOTTWH.”  He knows the words to “Them Toad Suckers,” is a “cat person,” likes coffee, tolerates my Starbucks addiction, and enjoys going to TJMaxx with me to make fun of the some of the more bizarre shoes and purses they have there. Maybe he’ll even take me to a place where I can where my LBD or my “What was I thinking?“ dress.
 As Eeyore would say, It’s “Just The Sort Of Thing That Would Happen.”