Look at all art, songs, sculptures, literary masterpieces. Look at children. Look at the beauty that is all around you, and the pain that comes alongside. Everything is a result of – or catalyst to – being in love. You’ll see.
It’s hard to admit, but I want it too. I want all of it. I want the pointless bickering, the long walks, the late night phone calls, the good morning texts. I want cute pictures with you, to hold your hand, to call you baby. I act like I don’t, but I do. I want the joking, the wrestling, the fights. I want to be those inseparable best friend couples that people are like “you’re still together?” That’s what I want.
I want you. I want it now.
ME: I don’t like him. No, nope. Nope. I don’t like him. I don’t like him. I don’t like him.
BEST FRIEND: Yes, you do.
ME: I know 😦
This, I learned:
If your girlfriend has a friend that really annoys you, don’t tell her to stop being friends with her. Just casually mention how pretty her friend is.
You made me promise never to be one of those nagging bitches that make their husbands pursue other women and eventually leave, so darling learn to wash the dishes (starting tonight) or this marriage will come to its bitter end.
Love, your wife.
When the screen turned to black and credits started to roll after A Walk to Remember, I thought of the sweetest thing I could say. Her head is still lying on my lap and I bet it would stay there for many minutes more. I brushed her soft, brown hair with my fingers and whispered, “I want to hold your hands when we’re 80 and say that we’ve made it.”
She lifted her hands to my face. “Will I still be having this red, sexy nails?”
“What? Why do you keep doing that?”
“Doing what, baby?”
“I’m trying to be romantic here.”
“Don’t make me choose between you or my nails,” in a second she’s up and walking towards the kitchen. “Just be warned. Someday you’ll ask me to give up something I really love, and then it’s going to get ugly.”
I think she’s pissed that Jaimie Sullivan died.
One time you saw me staring at your face. Tears started to fall from my eyes. You asked me what’s the matter, but I just smiled, shook my head, and looked back at the Meryl Streep movie we’re watching as I shove a handful of Cheetos in my mouth.
That moment I just thought: God, oh God I’m in love with this man.
I cried a silent cry as the Cheetos started to fall on the couch from my mouth. I had to laugh when you saw and freaked out.
I want you to know now that I made a mental note at each time you glanced at my breasts during our first date. Not that I thought you were a pervert or something – it has just been a habit. A test actually. Anyway, when you kissed me goodnight that night, I have made three conclusions:
a.) you’re not a guy who has a thing with breasts
b.) you’re not a guy. period
c.) you don’t find my boobs attractive (this is not true)
I thought that night would be the last time I would see your face, to which I was feeling okay about. Glad, even. How can I ever be with a man who doesn’t like my body? Who doesn’t even look at my body? I didn’t wore a plunging neckline to be ignored!
Two weeks later, after our first night together, I realized yet again how treacherous men can be.
“I can’t believe I’m going home to this,” I said, pointing to the dirty dishes at the sink.
“We’ve discussed this before, right? I do all the housework, but not the plates. Never the plates. That’s your only contribution to the welfare of this house,” she said, her hands on her hips.
“But I have work! I’ve been out working straight for eight hours.”
“Doing this won’t take you that long, I promise,” she said.
“Honey! I’m tired!”
“So am I!”
“Tired of what?! Doing nothing?” I heard myself shouting. I am tired. “We don’t even have kids! What were you doing here all by yourself all day anyway? Don’t you ever thought that maybe I want to rest after a stressful day? Come on!”
After a long pause she said, “You know what? Fine. I’m going to do the dishes today. Only for today. Just so you know that I am an understanding, considerate, patient, and merciful wife.”
“Thank you,” I said in exasperation and head upstairs.
Later that night, before I close my eyes to sleep, I finally accept that she forgot that it’s my birthday.