It is February and I am in love, and I don’t have much to say about that.
There’s a lot I could say, or it seems like I should be saying a week before Valentine’s Day, but:
I don’t want to reiterate the advice with its implicit promises — the forever afters, the three easy steps, the love languages, the no man’s land between Venus and Mars, the ifs and the thens.
I don’t want to deify one story over another — last February (and the long line of Februaries before it) was as good a chapter as this.
Not to mention I have never been good at writing happy things — and this is a happier thing than I ever expected, even though:
Love looks nothing like I believed when I was 8 and singing along to Beauty & the Beast.
Love looks nothing like I believed when I was 15 and waiting to court.
Love looks nothing like I believed when I was 21 and trying to earn his approval.
Love looks nothing like I believed when I was 24 and learning how whole I was already.
It is better, and it is less definable. It is beautiful, and it is less dramatic. It is so much, yet just one piece of my life with its myriad muches.
It is not the cliches, the promises, the best of all possible things. It is not the movies or the rules. It is not the fantasy. But it is good.
It is February and I am in love, and I don’t have much else to say. There is you and there is me, and today, and possibility.
Last year: It is February and I am single