Last night my husband and I went to bed angry.
We gaze in wonderment. We whisper, “I think I’m in love” and later, “I’m head over heels” and then, “I never want to live without you.”
Let me feel the pain, because it’s there, and pretending it’s not makes it far worse. Let me mourn the loss of the things I can’t do right now. Let me be frustrated. Let me cry about it.
When I receive his text messages, I am free to write back immediately. I don’t have to calculate the appropriate read-to-respond delay ratio. (That’s a thing, right?) I don’t dig for a witty retort; I don’t second-guess. Does this sound clingy? Am I too giddy? Should I abbreviate or not? Are capital letters too intense? I’d better go all-lowercase. I just respond.
I beam when a freshly engaged friend flashes her shiny new ring, a promise of forever from her real-life Romeo. When you really think about it, a proposal is pretty much the greatest compliment we chicks can receive. The man you are seeing not only enjoys your company, takes you on dates, and holds your hand in public, (that’s all I’m askin’ for right now, boys) but he wants to partner up with you as long as you both shall live. That’s pretty fantastic.