I’m involved with a boy. He's magnificent and I love him as much or more than I’ve ever loved any other adult in my life. He embodies everything I desire in a partner and we converse like best friends. How lucky could I get and what the fuck do I have to complain about?

He makes a lot of money. His family plays golf and owns timeshares. He drives an SUV and owns a home in the suburbs. His belongings were bought new and are quality crap. He has never gone hungry or suffered at the hand of someone he loved.

There’s a line in Barbara Kingsolver’s book "The Poisonwood Bible" about going hungry. It says something like, once you’ve truly known real hunger you can never again love someone who hasn’t. I think that idea is poetry. It’s challenging to build a bridge across two backgrounds so incredibly dissimilar.

So far, this boy and I are managing quite well. Despite our differences we connect on such a deep level that it seems were destined to grow old together. My fears linger though. How can I expect someone who has never gone without to understand my need to keep my cupboards overstocked, just in case? I dread his laughter at my inability to discard possessions that might, possibly come in handy.

I cringe quietly when he slips on clothes that I would never buy. Then, I wonder if its apparent that my personal contempt for such overpriced items stems from a childhood of going without. I’m searching for a middle ground where my faith in our relationship and my wariness of his lifestyle will balance one another. I’m stepping out of my comfort zone on the off chance that this is what love looks like.

It only seems fair that my rant consider his perspective. I’m a retired stripper. I’m a recovering drug addict with just five years of sobriety under my belt. I’m a struggling single mother. I’m destined to be a college student till I’m thirty-five. I have a family history of mental illness and cancer. Regardless, this boy loves me for me and doesn’t ever question our differences.

It’s possible that my reservations are bloated by my own fears of commitment. Two years of therapy and a standard dose of anti-depressants should have me jumping for the altar. It could be that I’m really merely apprehensive about my future being dependent on a boy. I want to make it on my own. What if I move into his nice suburban house and suddenly decide I’m content?

Being satisfied feels mostly like giving up; I’m afraid I won’t be able to integrate saving the world and shopping at Trader Joes. There should be an easy solution - just trust in love and your lives will pan out. Things are never that simple for me. Complications provide me with a sense of realism. So, I keep picking at things.

There is the solace of being listened to while I evaluate my needs and confusion openly and daily. Perhaps I’ve found the one person in the world who doesn’t mind that I’m analytical and incredibly talkative. Maybe that’s what love is all about.