A Thousand Words for Love (give or take a few)

My husband hit the big Three Three a few weeks ago. He wanted a lot of things for his birthday: A Wii game, a trip to AC, a sexual favor or two, possibly a new wife. So I gave him the next best thing: a shitty poem. Don't discount the joy a shitty poem can bring. I fancy myself a poet, a wordsmith, if you will. I write a lot of flowery, profound, and soul-untethered verse. But I really think I do my very best work when I'm not trying, like, at all. Here's my latest effort in all it's cheesy glory:

I think it's really great to see
you join the ranks of "33"
So what that we're old? We still have fun
Just different than we did at 21
So here's your first lesson on how to be
the ripe old age of 33
No more staying out all night
Now it's staying up to have a fight
No more drinking lots of beers
Now it's wiping away lots of tears
and while we're at it - wiping butts
long gone are the days of drugs & sluts
Now is the time for work & ruts.
Sleeping in? What the hell is that?
Now it's "Honey, get up and feed that cat!"
Yeah, doesn't it suck to be 33?
Now you know what it's like to be me!
I know you miss the fraternity
At least now you get to play a Wii
Do you miss real excitement in your life?
Dude, it's all over. I'm your WIFE.
You're a husband, dad, sole breadwinner
At least you don't have to make your dinner
or do your laundry or clean our place
and you get to wake each morning to my sweet face : )
When all is told, if you ask me,
it's quite an awesome thing to be
A grown ass man of 33.

Totally sweet, I know. Way better than a blow job, right? Todd and I sort of have a romantic tradition with the shitty poem. So there's a sentimental, nostalgic element at play here. Early in our relationship we corresponded from our boring jobs via email quite a bit. And we composed limericks, sonnets, all sorts of little rhymes to one another. I've kept them all. Sometimes, when I want to torture myself and grieve the loss of romance, I take them out and peruse those word capsules of our budding love.

There once was a man named Todd
who caught the eye of many a broad
then he met Gwen with her shiny blonde hair
and thought to himself, "really who can compare?"
then penetrated her repeatedly with his rod.

Okay, maybe it's not the height of sophisticated erotica or anything. It's us. It's Todd and Gwen. It's the couple who met at a hole in the wall bar through mutual friends and went home with each other the first night. Fuck The Rules. He looked deep in my eyes and fed me a line, "You're the sexiest woman I've ever met in my entire life." His words were smoother than my Coors Light. I drank them up just as quickly as my $2 beers.

Love. What is love? The hell if I know. I only know what it feels like to curl up every night next to someone who wouldn't have me any other way. It didn't happen over night. Although, the sex did. I mean, when I met Todd I thought, "Let the fucking commence." He was, and is, too damn hot. But love, or at least my interpretation of that ambiguous emotion, is so peculiar to time and space. It's constantly changing like the night sky changes, the way the waves in the ocean are random and unpredictable. To be in love is to ride a wave, whether it be playful or rough or tsunami. I don't think there are enough synonyms for Love. So many different emotions are wrapped up in the embrace of that one single word. The word "Love" is bursting at the seams with meaning. That's a lot of pressure for a four letter word. I think "Love" and "Fuck" have a lot in common in that regard.

Now is the time of year to celebrate love. Romantic love, familial love, agape love. Kids are forced to give Valentine's cards to every single classmate. Isn't that sort of like giving everyone a gold medal at the Olympics, even if they don't finish the race? Valentine's Day is the special olympics of holidays, I guess. Last year I basically ripped Valentine's Day a new asshole. But I would be lying if I said the holiday didn't get me thinking about the state of my relationship. I have to admit that the buzz of "love" in the air and the omnipresence of Big Red Hearts and the sweet, sweet allure of oversized boxes of chocolate awakens in me the desire to reignite some of those dying embers of romance Todd and I used to take for granted.

Our very first Valentine's Day I memorialized in, you guessed it, a shitty poem.

Snow Bunnies

With grace and courage we conquered
the daunting bunny hill
shooting down the mountain
with such amazing skill...

okay well maybe you did that
I spent my time in snow
falling down, or getting up
the going often slow.

Despite my technical errors
I just had so much fun
It was the best Valentine's Day
It couldn't be outdone.

We are also much like bunnies
in another of our habits
We don't just frolic in the snow,
we also fuck like rabbits.

Ah, those were the days. The days before diapers and death and mastectomies. But I wouldn't trade the here and now for that carefree world. There's nothing like total acceptance from another human being to rev the engines of your lagging self-esteem. There's nothing like somebody knowing your stinky ass, and loving the fuck out of you anyway. There's nothing like the comfort of that freedom. And yes, I said freedom. True love is the embodiment of freedom. It is the setting free of the soul. It is waking up every day to the wonder of that man still sleeping next to you. And knowing that he'll still be there tomorrow to greet the catastrophe and joy of the new day by your side.