Because Love Doesn't Have To Make Sense

When we first met, I was young (and not just younger) and you, were already you. In a crowded coffee shop, filled with good juju and over several frappes, we talked, and laughed, and fell in love. For me, it was our seeming difference – where I was aggressive, you were calm, where I was loud and insecure, you were even tempered and confident – that made you irresistible me. And for you, as you would tell me later on, it was my seeming crazy self-importance – the fact that I seemed to know that the world owed me (and I owed the world) something far greater than what I already had.

It wasn’t easy, after we got married.

I wanted excitement, and romance, and adventure, while you desired the quietness and Babylon 5 and sleepy Sunday afternoons. It had been a long road since then, but it was good road. Through protocultures, Bango Bubbles, cold noses in the middle of the night, stolen blankets, and unexpected snuggling in the early morning, we learned how to love each other despite and because of our own eccentricities. You learned to value physical touch (and Gossip Girl, and cut-throat Acquire); I learned how to value time (and Band of Brothers, and vat-less Science Fiction). And somewhere in between, we were blessed with a son who taught us that yes, we could still love each other (and laugh, hysterically, about our own foolishness), despite being deprived of sleep, and rest, while being overcome with worry for every little thing that he does.

Perhaps we are not the best of pairings still. We still fight, and argue; we still don’t completely understand the “kampi system” (though we have come a long way since we began). Sometimes I get impatient with you; and you, sometimes, find me unreasonable. But at the end of the day, even if things don’t make sense anymore, we still love each other.

We are the best of friends. We are the best of lovers.

Happy Anniversary (Week), my Beloved.