I just cleaned off my porch, and now I’m thinking about whether it would be ruinous to open the cheap bottle of champagne I bought at the Moreland Kroger, or if I should shroud my Valentine’s Day in some kind of fancy romantic mystery.
Update: It turns out that romantic mystery loses to the fact that I want a mimosa with ice out of a giant cup, and I don’t care that we’re both still working. I don’t feel like I have to shroud things in romantic mystery because love is really a combination of things, not just select magic days of the year where you wiggle into some lingerie even though you’re on your goddamn period.
There are things that mean things, and all of those things put together become an abstract concept that makes your life worth living. I don’t know the “moment” I fell in love with my husband. I know there were parts.
Part of it happened when he was drunkenly cooking macaroni and cheese in my disgusting studio apartment on an electric stove Athens, GA wearing only a twirly mini skirt I left on the ground. We’d either just gotten it on or were about to get it on, and honestly, it was very important to me that I had this muscular dude who just wanted some macaroni and cheese and to do it and everything else be damned.
I think it was also when he fixed a light that some guy who openly rejected me after coming home with me installed in a haphazard way.
“What in the world is going on here? Did a monkey install this? Can I fix this for you? This is a fire hazard.” Love.
Once we did a ton of shots of tequila during a hurricane in Central Louisiana and made a fake news video where we both played the violin. Love.
Once I had to race to a Walgreens in Louisville to use the bathroom in a horrific, dangerously-close-to-crapping-my-very-pants situation and he pretended to look at stuff in Walgreens for 20 minutes while I occupied their bathroom like a protester. Love.
He met me in a hotel room after basic training wearing tan, Army issued underpants and socks. He showed me how to do a bunch of dress right dress stuff in his Army issued underpants and socks. Love.
There are a million more. I regularly hear him read Reddit out loud and I love it. I regularly play music with him.
If you don’t expect love to be magic and to involve roses and smelling good, love can be what it is: the sum of a bunch of little flashes of kindness and interestingness and neatness. And having fun.
I’m not saying that the more precious, romantic moments don’t matter, I’m just saying they’re not any more important or valuable than any of the other, dumber moments where you’re just dicking around living your life.
I’m just thinking it’s nice to stay chill and just take it as it comes. You’re just setting yourself up for your infinity diamond necklace to be thrown across the room in a rage and subsequently accompanied by infinity diamond divorce if you forget that
it wasn’t really ever magic,
it was always really just the two of you.