After several years of long distance dating between Bethesda and Reston, I finally made the pilgrimage over the Potomac and moved in with a certain hiker. Little did I know that living together would expose our differences so quickly.
Within the first days, I realized that I was two percent and he was skim.
Now, you'd think I would have known this, having been with him more than just a little while. But before we lived together, I had always just miraculously shown up with groceries from time to time. I was the unofficial bearer of milk. Two percent.
And apparently, it is true. They don't want to buy the cow when they can get the milk for free.
Anyway, once we lived together, we pretended to share the shopping responsibilities a few times. That, of course, was before I once again fell into the old routine of showing up miraculously with groceries at the end of the day. Funny how that works.
But on those rare occasions when we were actually at the grocery store together, he'd quickly lunge for the skim - way before I had even found the milk aisle.
I couldn't figure out why he liked skim. Maybe it was just what he grew up drinking in his parents' house. Maybe he had never stopped to consider the fact that skim milk tastes like weirdly flavored water. All I know is, here was this skinny guy drinking skim for no discernible reason. It was strange.
And so in the beginning, I bought both skim and two percent. I wanted the hiker to be happy and I certainly didn't want to impose my sophisticated tastes upon him. But there was also no way I was pouring skim on my cereal. I don't care how poorly my clothes fit, I need fat in my liquid. So I just always bought two milks. Eventually, though, he either wanted the two percent or he just didn't care. Whatever the reason, he was soon using the two percent also.
So then, with all of our differences resolved, we lived happily ever after.
Well, maybe that's not exactly what happened. But at least milk wasn't an issue for us.
A nameless friend - as if any of my friends would agree to be named at this point - has recently been pondering his own two percent. It seems he's been dating a ninety eight percent babe for a while. Long enough to know that what they have in common works out to be about ninety eight percent good.
The problem is apparently the two percent.
At least that's how he puts it.
And as much as I've tried to figure this two percent thing out, I just can't.
I've asked him over and over: "What's the two percent?" "What's missing?"
In my own relationship with the hiker, I know that a good ninety plus percent was really on target. Maybe even ninety eight percent.
The groping was good. The stated goals were similar. The laughs were abundant. The tears were shared. The distribution of household chores was acceptable to both of us. And, most importantly, we agreed on the weight and number of blankets required on the bed for sleep and on the sofa for movie-watching. It was a good thing.
It was a good thing except for a certain percent - maybe two or maybe more - that we just didn't see eye to eye on. A certain percent where we just weren't on the same page. Let's just say we had an issue. A certain unresolvable issue that couldn't be overcome by any amount of hugging, cuddling, vacuuming or looking for houses.
So in my case, there was one issue - a really simple two percent or so - that destroyed any chance of the other ninety eight percent working for the long term.
With my two percent clearly identified, I pressed my nameless friend to identify his two percent. If he knew exactly what the two percent was, I reasoned, he could figure out how to obtain it, enhance it or fix it. In the alternative, if the two percent just wasn't possible to resolve, then he'd be able to acknowledge that the other ninety eight percent was good, but not good forever.
But, as it turns out, it wasn't really one missing element equaling two percent.
According to my buddy, who I'm now positive has a promising future judging olympic ice skating, it's not one element that's missing.
No. The ninety eight percent representing the good in the relationship is a cumulative score based on a variety of factors. These factors have each been assigned a percentage score based on one hundred. The scores have been totaled to determine a final percentage.
So, the good news is that my buddy is - or was - in a relationship that's ninety eight percent out of a possible one hundred percent good. Yup, he and his woman are ninety eight percent there, baby.
The bad news is that it's not one hundred percent. And the ideal relationship would, of course, be one hundred percent.
Of course?
So let's say you're skating at Nationals. And you skate your heart out. And you hit all of your doubles and triples and double triple quadruples. None of those wobbly landings or arms flung inappropriately.
And you spin longer than anyone's spun before. And the song you choose has the audience alternating between hysterical tears and passionate ovation. And let's say that the audience is totally with you. They feel you. And they feel for you. And they're with you there on the ice. And they soooo want you to do well.
And it feels soooo good to have skated soooo well. Everything has come together.
And then, the scores. Well, first the cheap roses wrapped in plastic and the teddy bears hurled at you from the nosebleed section.
And THEN the scores.
And DAMN! No six-o's. All five this and five that. The scores are excellent, for sure, but they're not the absolute best. They're not the perfect six-o's that you've dreamed are possible.
Now fortunately, I don't like skating anywhere near enough to investigate the statistics, but I'm willing to bet that the best skaters haven't scored perfectly the majority of the time.
And I'm wondering if coming in close but less than one hundred percent is a relationship measure that boys understand and girls don't....
Or maybe it's just hard for boys and girls alike to accept the fact that sometimes you have to forgo the really good ninety eight percent - all because of some two percent you just don't want to name, face or admit.