The truth is, I only feel like my real and honest self about two and a half out of seven days a week. I'm too embarrassed to even attempt simple math in front of anyone else. Sometimes I find myself paralyzed with this fear that my life will never consist of anything other than working full-time, even though I know that's silly. At least, I hope it is.
And I would have to say that, yes, I am in love. Not the ABC prime-time kind of love. Where I'm, you know, still waiting to see if he'll ever leave his wife for me. Or sitting by a hospital bed surrounded by medical machinery, tears cascading down my face with mascara that never runs, holding one of his immobile hands in both of mine, just begging him to wake up from a coma.
No. It's the boring, in-for-the-long-haul, fully-dedicated-to-one-another's-happiness kind of love. Where we're already married. Where we go to bed at 9pm if we want to. Where we talk about water bills sometimes. The kind where I melt whenever he mows the lawn or loosens his tie or tells me that he cleaned out the kitty litter so I don't have to. Where he fully supports the fact that I'll most likely never have hair past my shoulders. Where he says he is completely fine spending our Saturday afternoon lunch date listening to me go into a full synopsis of my most current read.
I guess it doesn't make for the best writing. Not the kind that affairs and comas and love triangles do. I guess that's why the majority of stories are told prior to the happily ever after, not afterward.
But I am in love. And isn't that kind of a miracle, in and of itself?