I was pretty young when I learned about the lines on my hand. Pretty young being about 10, 11, or 12. Maybe younger. About the same time I feel like all of us learn about them. I learned my life line was the one that wrapped around my thumb from the middle of my palm. Mine wraps all the way to almost the other side of my hand; this means, if I am reading it correctly, that I will live until I am 135. There are a few more minor ones, but two I was always interested in after my life line – my fate line (or money line, I don’t know what that one is called exactly), and my love line. From what I understood, I am going to be very rich someday; I was also going to find my true love, and be with her forever.
Like most of us who find entertainment in hocus pocus, fantasy and the romance we like to believe in, I accepted those things from these lines as I do from a daily horoscope: only accepting the positive, believing it true, and dismissing the rest of the information as baseless and unreal. When I was young I accepted the idea of finding my true love, they being my first love, and living with them in complete peace and happiness the rest of my life. Many people who become truly great in the field they have chosen to pursue with their lives realized at a very young age what they wanted to dedicate their lives to – I could never decide what I wanted my life’s work to be as a child, but as far back as I can remember I knew I had one constant hope; one desire that was constant –
– I would fall in love, at first sight, and that girl would be my love the rest of my life.
I tried for years to make this so; I tried so very hard, for years, to tell myself that the girl I briefly locked eyes with at the water fountain near the end of one day in fifth grade was that girl. I believed this throughout middle school. I believed this into high school. I looked past other girls, until one would approach me. I would convince myself that I had been looking in the wrong place the entire time; that the girl who wanted to talk to me was the one I would fall in love with, not the one I had met eyes with years ago. I believed my true love would find me; all I had to do was get out of its way, and let it happen. When I convinced myself it happened, I learned I wouldn’t have it unless I tried a little. I tried…very little.
I chased this belief in college. I didn’t know what I wanted to major in, but I knew I wanted my love story to be written this way. I had to try a little.
And yes, I learned in college that life wasn’t given to us. Life wasn’t waiting for us. Life is exactly what we see it as, and we should approach it as such until we find out otherwise. I learned as a twenty-year-old man that I couldn’t write my own love story before it happened. I couldn’t plan my love, because it wasn’t a given thing. My love story was not written in the lines on my hand. It was not a script in a movie.
Actually, I learned I couldn’t plan my love story as a twenty-two-year old man. I was still trying desperately to do so when I was twenty.
I learned, as a twenty-two-year-old, that life is not a script. Scripts are created out of thin air; scripts are not real. When a script is bad, it is criticized for not being more real. Maybe I learned, more accurately, that life isn’t created from a script – it is the other way around.
I know, I know. What a terrible line. I would definitely find that in a bad script.
The story I have told many times about her already through bad blog posts, bad poems, and bad short stories, does sound very much like a script from a romantic comedy. She was seeing someone else when we met, I convinced myself of the sanctity of another girl so thoroughly I couldn’t allow myself to think about someone else. When she broke up with her boyfriend, and was single, something inside me told me not to pass on her while I waited for this other girl. I had to try, to give someone another chance.
I have told this story far better in other places, and will continue to do so the rest of my life. It is a simple conclusion you probably have come to at this point: that girl, the girl I took a chance on, is the love of my life, and we have been together for four years today.
This post is not about the story of how we met, nor is it about the nature of true love. It is not how, after four years with her, and everything we have gone through, she still makes me completely happy. After four years, there is not one thing about her I have found that I don’t like. After four years, no one before or since has ever been able to make me come alive just by looking at me; coming in the room I am in; coming home after a long day at work. We have said all these things to each other, nearly every single day, and though we know it doesn’t mean any less to say them, it is well understood we understand them.
This is not a post about my incredible luck. This is not a post about how I, the least social person imaginable, the person who was the most dumbstruck by a girl talking to him that he feared he would never be able to be himself around a girl he liked, wished to have his girlfriend be his best friend. However impossible, I wished to have the girl whom I loved be happy with the person I am when I am not around anyone else, not even family. This is not a post about how the first girl whom I ever dated became that person, and how completely rare that is in this world, especially today.
This post is about a script, although I didn’t know exactly that was what this post was about until just now. This post is about the things we haven’t always said to each other. This post is about how, after four years, every day has been the same. Yes, the days have grown to become, as it would seem after a few years of the same thing over and over again, to be expected in their outcomes.
Every day has been the same. The same greeting of pleasant surprises. The same feeling of wonder at seeing her sleeping face in the morning. The same, unexpected feeling I get every time I see her when I wake up, that fills me with a different, newborn awe at this love of mine. Every day when she comes back home from work, or I come home from work (fingers crossed) and see her face I am greeted with the same. The same feeling of something I have never felt before: when all the distractions, frustrations, failures of another day in a life where I have not yet done what I felt I would…melt away at the sight of her. Every day I feel the same feeling of utterly inimitable, kick-my-feet-in-the-air joy that comes from seeing her perfect blue eyes; her small, sweet smile. Every day I am filled with that same desperate desire to remember everything that was new and wonderful about my day with her. Everything that made me laugh; every little joke we shared. Every smile of hers; every touching of all those lines on her hands. Every night, I am filled with the same irrevocable feeling that comes from a day of new surprises, a feeling that is always consistent in its originality: there is no other person in the world who I would rather be, no other place I would rather be, no time I would rather be in. No one else I could ever dream to be with more. I am completely, honestly…purely happy here. I am a happy that will never go away; a happy that will never surprise me by being unsurprising. This is what I always wanted – this is who I will always want.
And, every morning, I wake up with that same, different wonder. The new wonder, every time.
This post is about a script four years in the making. A script that has been more organic than anything I have ever written. A script that is more natural, more real than anything I will ever hope to write. A script that will always be better, because it is real.
It is the script I always wanted to write, but never knew I could. And I only hope I can keep writing it.
Happy Anniversary my love.