You Don’t Really Love Them Until….

you want to kill them.   I’m truly convinced of this fact. I saw this quote somewhere not too long ago and laughed as I repeated it to my husband.  He was channel surfing at the time and looked up briefly as he muttered, “You’ve got that right.”  I’m not sure if it’s girl code to toss my hair and get mad at that, but if it was I failed.  I found it hilarious.

We were out to dinner with friends and mentioned this in comic passing.  We were told by one of the couples attending that they never felt that way.  Ever.  Never.  Ever. 

church-lady

Most days I love my quirky husband.  Strike that.  I love him every day.  He is kind and generous and sweet and funny and goofy and makes me laugh.  He’s honest and loyal.  He puts up with all of my shit and rarely does he ever complain.  He’s stood by my side through everything.  Hurricane Sandy knocked down his parents house like some villian out of a fairy tale and displaced them into our house for four months.  I am set in my ways.  I am a capable woman who has her own way of doing things.  My mother in law has a very different idea of how things should be done.     We’re both right by the way.  My daughter and at the time infant grandson lived with us.  It’s safe to say that the strain was not easy for any of us but there he stood like a rock holding the rest of us together as conflict painted the walls of our house.  Their loss, our frustration, everyone else’s advice of what we did right or wrong took its toll.  We’re fine now, but it took some time and distance for us all to move past what could essentially be boiled down to being in each other’s hip pockets for too long.  There was a point that his family was pitted against his family.  Old versus new.  It was never fatal but it did hurt.  It taught us a lot about ourselves and taught me all I ever needed to know about my husband.  Magilla let’s everyone do their thing.  If I want to paint the house electric blue and hot pink, he’s game.  If I want to take up pottery, if I want to learn French, if I want to travel the world, if I want to throw things and rage at how sexist or mean or rude or petty life can be, he just calmly listens and then asks what we’re having for dinner.  

He also has manstruation.  This occurs during the new moon which usually coincides with my PMS.  Our dog Hellhound usually bobs her head back and forth as we argue.  He’s convinced that because of his birth sign, it’s his God given right to act hormonal.  I informed him that I farted the first three notes of Formation but it doesn’t make me a Beyoncé tribute band no matter how I love her hat and if he wants to go to Red Lobster…

He was not amused. And all the while our dog just looks back and forth like, “Great hoooomans, which one of you is going to take me out to poop?”

I love the man but some days…

Oh I’m the only wife that feels this way?   Hmmm, interesting.  

So my love affair with Mr. Magilla is not a simple one.  I don’t think any love affair is simple.  Nothing is as complex as love.  As a couple, you know exactly what buttons to push and when.  You know how to make them laugh or cry.  Hallelujah.  

There’s a blaze of light in every word

It doesn’t matter what you heard

The holy or the broken hallelujah 

Leonard Cohen sang it well; this song of love- lifting and straining and sweating and needing and pulsing and faltering and breaking and building and ultimately reflecting.  All that love is – in it’s brutal, splendid glory plays out in his words.  It’s not neat and tidy.  I love romantic movies as much as the next girl but they truly are misleading.  As young girls we were taught to wait for Prince Charming; that he would take us away from all of thisssss.  This what?  Define this.  Did they ever warn us that Prince Charming farts in his sleep and snores and scratches his nether regions while watching football and tells the same joke so many times you start to sneer the punchline?  No.  They don’t you that part.  Nor do they tell you that he whines when he’s sick and that his version of housecleaning does not include dusting in spite of the many paper towels used while spraying Windex in the toilet to clean it.  Nor do they tell you that when you finally lose it one morning three months after your father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s that he will silently sit beside you holding you as you cry out your fear and anguish over losing Daddy- the original Prince Charming who held you as a child the way your adult Prince is holding you now before you knew what the grown up version of love is.  They don’t tell you that he always makes sure there’s paper towels and toilet paper and cookies in the house just in case you have a bad day or the flu.  They don’t tell you that he always emails you at work to tell you the silly details of his day that simply and purely make him…him- who he is and what you found princely in him way back when the fairy tale began. 

I wonder if when Mr. Cohen wrote that song he realized how many people it would speak to.  It came from a very personal and what seems to be painful place and like all art it is subject to interpretation. There are some who will read this think my writing career is spent hacking on Magilla and others will realize this is my heart and soul which both belong to him being poured out on the page.  

Art is subject to opinion and interpretation…but what if life is the same way?  What if my Prince Charming is subject to my interpretation of the highs and lows of my experiences?

There is one certainty.  Life and love are perfectly imperfect.  The beauty within us and around us is defined by imperfection and the simplistic truth that imperfection leaves us constant room for improvement and enlightenment.  

I don’t believe in going backwards.  I never did.  I do believe that my Prince may be your frog.  And we should all allow the room for each other to find our own hallelujah.  

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