I don’t know for certain, but I have a feeling that not everyone gets to experience earth-shattering love in their lifetime. I know there was a time in my life (not too long ago, in the grand scheme of things) that I thought I was going to be one of those people. And while it was kind of a bummer thought, I didn’t really know what I was missing so I wasn’t all that concerned with it.
I was having semi-regular orgasms and was pretty pleased with where my life was headed. And then one day some drunk groomsman at a wedding started aggressively making out with me on the dance floor, and everything changed.
I mean, I’m not trying to brag (she types as she’s clearly getting ready to brag) but I am the LUCKIEST girl in the world. I met someone I fell madly in love with, and who I keep falling madly in love with every day. Like truly, madly, deeply. (sigh…. remember Savage Garden??)
Anyway, it’s what prompts me to write emails like this for no reason:
I hope you know how much I love you. It’s probably not even healthy. I love you so much your farts don’t even really bother me that much even though I pretend like they do.
I love you so much that I don’t even care if my career falls apart, because you know what? I’d still have you, and you’re so supportive and encouraging that I’d figure a new career out.
I love you so much that even if you lost your dick in a tragic logging accident, I would still want to be with you. Because you have a wildly talented tongue and fingers like a god. And you’d still have a smile that melts my heart. And I’d still have a vibrator, so we’d be ok.
I love you so much that if I had to choose between ever having a Diet Coke EVER AGAIN IN THE HISTORY OF MY LIFE and you, I would always totally choose you.
I love you so much that sometimes I just sit around and think about how much I love you. How I actually feel like a more complete person since I met you. More daring, more beautiful, more alive.
I love you so much because my life and my future got so much richer once you showed up.
I really hope that everyone gets to experience that kind of ridiculous, overwhelming, shout from the rooftops, life-changing kind of love at least once in their lifetime, but I don’t think everyone does.
So on days when he leaves out the tortilla chips AGAIN and I bite into a stale one, or when he’s blasting his YouTube videos while I’m trying to work, or when I’m in a particularly irritable, bitchy mood for no reason at all (shocking, I know) I always remember that. Not everyone gets that kind of love. And I stumbled into it somehow, on a dance floor. In a bar. After a wedding. Go figure.
So I guess that means the suffocating farts and his affinity for hyper-gory, terrible movies (think “Hobo With A Shotgun”… yes it’s real, and yes, I’ve seen it) are just a small price to pay. I’ll take that deal every day of the week.