Was anyone ever going to tell me that love was messy?
For the better part of my life, I thought love was a guaranteed Cinderella fantasy, complete with a Prince Charming dressed handsomely in a black tux who cries as he watches you walk down the aisle on the very day you have dreamed of for years. The day that is so magical, beautiful, wonderful in your eyes.
My twenties brought new visions, new suspicions.
Now love is a gut-wrenching vulnerability that will never truly know if a significant other finds significance in another, no matter if you’ve been together one night or two years. Love is faith that he or she loves you. Love is believing the spark and emotional bond is still there, even knowing you will never truly know someone else’s thoughts–not even your own.
Love is beyond terrifying.
Love is spending years with someone and not picking up the red flags. Love may be stubborn and wild, but it is not always bulls chasing down matadores.
Love is questioning every word and act for both its face value and deeper meaning. Are my words good enough to convey I love him, need him, want him? Are my words good enough to adequately describe my concerns right now? Are my actions good enough, meaningful enough to show him how much I want to serve him, to put his needs and wants above my own because the law of our love commands it?
Love is never knowing if you are good enough for him or her to not go looking for love and adequacy somewhere else.
Love is blaming yourself sometimes for not being good enough when that person does cheat, does leave.
Love is being scared of the idea that we can fall out of love. And never really truly know why.
Love is never knowing if sickness and death will cheat you of a happy ever after.
All these things and more are just the beginning of my newfound fears . . . because the more I have found my identity, the more weighty the value I place on it is.
And I don’t want to be cast off-balance by putting it in shallow or fleeting hands.
Love . . . it is so complicated and messy and unsure, like a kitchen thrown into utter chaos while cooking.
But love can also be beautiful, majestic, lusty, amazing–like a glass (or bottle) of fine, aged wine.
Being a whole person and making up half of a relationship . . . that math intimidates me.
But even though my Cinderella fantasies have faded into ugly step-sister superstitions, I still want love. Still want romantic feelings and beautiful moments with my equal partner.
So I’m willing to roll up my sleeves and tackle the kitchen chaos, believing that one glass (or bottle) of fine aged wine will be a constant upon the counter that I clean.