I wanted love.
I wanted the perfect fairy-tale, storybook fantasy of love.
I wanted the midnight serenades, the breakfast made in bed, the dinner served with wine, the red rose bouquets, the love poem notes.
I wanted the sunset car rides, the beach picnics, the two dogs and two kids, the white-picket fence house with a big backyard.
I wanted the frilly white wedding dress, the self-written vows, the cake on our faces, the toasts that made us cry, the small family wedding.
I wanted the love that everyone on earth has talked about and written about and sang about and had.
But that’s not what I got.
I didn’t get the perfect package of love that I was always told that I would get – if I just waited long enough, the perfect person would come my way.
No, I didn’t get the perfect person.
I got you, and I don’t think anyone could ever come closer.
I got the off-tune singing in the shower, the burnt sunny-side-up eggs, the dry chicken served with a sheepish smile, the white orchids (because that’s my middle name), the texts that said “Love you baby.”
I got the traffic-laden car rides home from the beach, a cooler of drinks but no snacks because we both forgot, no dogs and no kids because we’re too young, and separate apartments because we’re at different stages in our life.
I didn’t even get talks about marriage because we’re far far far from there.
Our love isn’t the perfect story where you sweep me off my feet after waking me with true love’s kiss. Our love isn’t that of Romeo and Juliet or Wall-E and Eve. Our love is more like two wolf clubs playing together – we bite but we don’t know how harsh our teeth are, we wrestle because we want to come out on top, we’re young and immature, but we’re cute and fluffy and full of a thirst for life, and we have the potential to be so much more.
I didn’t get the love I had always dreamed about. I got something better.
(And I know you’re going to complain about how damn cheesy I am, but I know you feel the same).