Being in Love with Love

Only... I'm not. In love with love, that is. Love is infuriating, and maddening, and totally insane. It makes one do things that in any other situation one would avoid. It causes a total breakdown of "life as we know it." It robs one of independence. It takes no interest in things like reason and logic. Like any good adversary, love is sneaky. It finds the weakest points in any fiercely independent woman's armor, and sits, waiting for the right time to strike. And when it does, it catches her completely off guard. Suddenly, she is standing in the shower, or having a slice of 'za, or falling asleep, and those words just fall out of her mouth before she can stop them, and there it is -- Love -- sitting there, all mushy and awkward, putting a puddle of sentimentality between this formerly solitary individual and the rest of the world. Dammit.

Those words come out, and, since they are now out in the universe, must be assessed. Enter the miles and months-long questionaire: Is this guy fun to be around? Does he get along with my family? How about my friends? Do we get along when we are alone? Does he make me want to rip out my hair? Does he make me want to rip off his clothes? Is he willing to watch the kind of movies I like, or at least leave me alone long enough to watch them? Do I like him? ...and on it goes. Of, course, it would be better to have done all of this assessment BEFORE those fateful words slipped out, but sometimes, since love is a sneaky little bastard, we haven't got around to it yet. Usually, no matter how one loves another, there is a fatal flaw; Perhaps the wrong answer to one of the questions listed above, or sometimes just a dawning realization that this is not the guy with whom you want to spend forever. Then comes the inevitable break-up, and sometimes the break-down that tags along.

Love is much like the lottery: it's a tax on people who can't do math. A vast majority of the time, the person with whom one falls in love is the wrong person, it's the wrong time, or there is some other insuperable barrier to the relationship working. But, very, very occasionally, the person with whom one falls in love is the right person, in the right time, and with just the right circumstances.

Being a creature of reason, it floors me to realize that I may have beaten the statistical odds and actually found "Mr. Right."
 
I have been with  "Mr. Appropriate," "Mr. Super-duper,"and "Mr. If-only-it-were-another-time," each of whom is wonderful in his own right, and some of whom are still dear friends to me. But, to have found the person who compliments me right now, in all ways, is astounding. It makes love--the ultimate impracticality--practical, logical, and perfectly reasonable. Woo-hoo! Go me!

................. I guess that's why I'm getting married .................