I Love You, You’re Perfect, No Change
Remember I mentioned some things coming up in the next few weeks to mess with my schedule? I worked a twelve-hour day yesterday, I’m taking today off to support the sanctuary in a re-zoning meeting, and my cats all get their dentals tomorrow.
Recently I saw this play again. It reminded me I had this in the archives somewhere. It’s dated August 11, 2004, which means it was created prior and that’s when it was transferred to my laptop. I have a strange feeling, despite my great filing process, that I might have shared it already. If so, please consider me in re-runs.
“I love you, you’re perfect, now change.”
Somewhere, there’s a compromise. Isn’t there?
Between falling for blue eyes or brown, between asking for love-making to be more attentive or the afterwards to be shorter. It isn’t always about him calling too frequently, is it? Or her not reaching over to unlock the car door?
At some point, you really do think someone’s perfect, don’t you? And you don’t want them to change.
I always thought falling in love with someone for their faults as much as their strengths was bullshit. Perhaps because I couldn’t love W for his, and he almost relished his distaste for mine (I believe, in part, because he was ecstatic to have something to complain about).
Certainly I’ve been called cute for my eccentricities and neuroses from time to time. But I don’t think anyone’s ever cuddled up due to my feet-skin picking habit.
I’m starting to realize I’ll never be perfect.
I’m always going to overstep the boundaries of “too much mothering” (Do you have enough money for lunch? Please stop mixing pills and liqueur. What did the doctor say?).
I’m never going to be able to put me before him one hundred percent of the time. Nor will I always put us before others.
Maybe it’s less about finding someone who opens doors and more about someone who doesn’t care if you forget to do the same. If someone’s going to love me because I’m not perfect, the one big thing they’ll have to accept is that not being perfect drives me absolutely insane.
This has all been brought on not so much by the play, but by Love, Actually.
The little boy, running through the airport. In tandem with the crowd seeking the Portuguese woman at the restaurant so the Englishman can ask her hand in marriage right there in front of everyone.
Can they really be the same? Can an adult really love as open and pure as a little kid?
Can you really resign yourself to the possibility of total, utter heartbreak? Can you really believe that love is worth it? Another person? Yourself?
I want someone to love me like that. But can I request it when I’m unsure of my ability to reciprocate?