Love, actually

From the very first time a dashing leading man carried a beautiful, virginal bride across a threshold to a perfectly ordered and appointed new home in some TV series or movie of the 50s or 60s, you knew there was an imaginary standard for "modern" love that you could never meet. The man was the bread winner and the woman was the matriarch, perhaps she worked outside the home, perhaps she was focused as a homemaker, children or not. They always had dinner together at the same time each evening, and the food was just to his liking. They rarely argued, and if they did it was over something silly like the woman being too sensitive or burning the roast, maybe the man spent too much time with his buddies playing poker or golf. Regardless of the insignificant mishaps of idyllic daily life, the view from the American living room was that the people on the screen were always happy, always loving, and always committed.

Enter reality and the year 2005. I don't have an unrealistic idea of what my love life should be. I know that with all the wonder and good feelings and happiness there is also a good share of compromise, disagreement, and work. That's what love is. It's not a picture perfect plasticine world where all the colors are vivid and the sun is on perpetual high beam. It's something entirely different, something harder and grittier with shades of gray. There are unhappy times. There are moments when you question what you're doing. Not everything gets worked out. But the thing is... it's better this way. It's better knowing that although every issue doesn't get resolved you can get past it. It's better knowing that when you have a fight you can be mad and get angry probably say stupid things, and at the end of it when the talking is over you can lay down next to the person you love more than anything else and know that you're sleeping next to the best thing that's ever happened to you. It's better knowing that when you're busy getting annoyed by random small things about him you're still loving him. You love him in spite of what he does that bothers you. He loves you back. You get on his nerves, too you know. You're not perfect. Love isn't perfect. It's better... it's real. It's true and it's tough. It makes you feel like you can do anything and it lets you know what's possible. It's the best. He's the best. I know it.


On a completely unrelated note I seem to have done something to my foot. I either bruised my arch or strained some little muscle in there. It hurts. Ouch.