Skip navigation

Category Archives: Love

I’ll be honest- I’m much better with you around. It’s not just that my mood improves, though that’s the understatement of the year. More like my mood blows up into a shimmering explosion of all that is fantastic in the world. Being with you is like watching corgi puppies play with kittens while eating chocolate cake and Tucker’s ice cream while listening to Motown and being told I’ve won the lottery. Yeah, it’s that good. But I digress- that’s not why I’m better with you around, or at least not the sole reason.

You see, I am a much more productive person with you around. Yeah, I go to work and do my best job there… but since I’m not floating through the days knowing that I get to come home to you when I’m done, I’m not as good at being cheerful under stress. And when I’m at home, I look at my disaster of a room and have no inspiration to really deal with it. After all, it may take me forever to find anything I want, but I also don’t do much in my room. I pretty much sleep in here and use my computer, neither of which requires cleanliness. But the place is still a mess and it’s kind of discouraging in a weird way. I suppose my room is making me feel a little inadequate. But I never feel inadequate with you. You make fun of my slob-like ways, and I eventually am inspired to clean and make you happy and impressed with me. It’s hard to feel that way when I hardly see you, you know?

I really shouldn’t complain. I’m going to be seeing you all the time in a month. But it’s difficult while it lasts. I’m glad you exist. And the title of this post? It’s true. I miss you like hell.

I love you.

Have you thought about the nature of romance lately? Not rose petals and candles and all that rom-com shit. Romance, that grand, elusive quality of certain intangible… it’s not easily defined, and when one tries, it slips through one’s metaphorical fingers.

It didn’t occur to me until today, but love in and of itself is not romantic, not even romantic love. When someone clarifies love as “romantic”, they usually mean that as something more than friendship, something different from familial devotion. Maybe there’s no better word for it, but no kind of love is really romantic. Love is mostly pedestrian moments- sure it’s a lot of fun, and maybe sometimes there are romantic moments, but most of loving someone “romantically” is logistics and certain enjoyable activities. It’s nothing like romance.

Romance is the essence of the most dramatic moments of our lives. The best kind of love is not this way- certainly, it makes better movies when love is so dramatic that it seems romantic at every moment, but love is so much better when it’s easy.

True romance requires hardship as well as euphoria, because it can have no mundane moments. While we all have difficulties as well as some really amazing ones, romance is being something of a mess all the time. We know when we see it- just look at a black-and-white photo of a puddle on the sidewalk with a red rose or a teddy bear or a rag doll and tell me that’s not romantic. Sad, yes, but still romantic. Smoking a cigarette at a bus stop alone in the rain is another romantic activity. Passionately kissing your lover on a boat in the moonlight is definitely romantic. Think about how many great things are NOT romantic, though. Puppies? Not romantic. Going swimming with your significant other? Also not romantic. Teasing your boyfriend about his nerd cred? Not romantic.

I haven’t posted in this blog in months because I haven’t been inspired to write. I’ve figured out that it’s because I’m a romantic writer. I can only write anything good when I’ve got an intense feeling of romance. And you know what? I’m totally in love and happy, and I don’t feel that vague feeling of elevation unless something tragic happens, like the death of one of the greatest young singers. Otherwise, I just live my life and don’t sit here reflecting on it through the written word. Maybe one day I’ll find inspiration without the emotion, but if I don’t, I think I’m okay without it.

She was sitting, waiting for him. Again. Wearing combat boots with her miniskirt and long not-quite-white jacket. She bought it to look like Kim Novak, who was one of those sexy, femme fatale-style blonds- not like Grace Kelly’s wholesome statuesque beauty at all. She’d bought the jacket to look like Kim Novak, and maybe it was working, except of course for the combat boots which were a decidedly punk rebellion against her beautiful jacket’s classic vintage look. Somehow it still kind of went. She was also wearing sunglasses and slouching at the edge of a fountain, even though the weather was practicing the art of June gloom- gray and sunless. She looked bored, but she was really holding in irritation: where the hell is he? Why is he so late? When he shows up, I’m going to tear him a new one. She wouldn’t, of course. She knew that. She wasn’t sure that he did, but she hoped he did. She loved him so much she never quite managed to be mad when he showed up. She knew that as soon as he showed up, she’d go from being Miss Bored and Angry to being giddily happy and bounding up to him and serving him with as many kisses as possible, like a damn puppy or something.

This is the scene she wishes were happening. Instead she slouches in her house with a pain in her gut and the taste of minty chocolate Girl Scout cookies on her lips. At least she knows he loves her. That he wants her to call him everyday, that he wishes she would really call when she says she will. She still worries she’s losing him, but not as much as she was. She’s not quite happy about the whole thing, but maybe, just maybe, she’s feeling optimistic 🙂