On Being In Love

When we think of love, we often imagine the kind that requires our partners, or potential ones, to run for us in the rain, hair soaked and clinging to their face, droplets caught on their lips, feet moving fast toward us, arms opening into some grand, cinematic declaration. We think of the kind of love where a person wakes suddenly after another failed attempt at sleep, sighing because the other side of the bed is empty, again, only to meet them the next day and profess their undying, deep love.

We hope and ache for the romantic version, the kind that knots in our stomach as we wait, patient and impatient at once simultaneously, our hands shaking, the tingle to our toes, to hear back from someone whose hand we imagine holding, fingers interlocked, mouth to mouth, except only in the fantasy, because they still haven't responded. And so often, our ideas and fantasies of love are from and embedded with this kind of grandeur.

One of the most romantic moments of my life happened in high school, and it carried all of that grandeur, all of that passion, or, I mean, at least I thought. Or, I guess it did, but that's the point here. Twenty-two years later, the feeling of magic and love and whimsy, that unending refusal to let go, but only the feelings, those moments, because sometimes moments do not align with the reality of what is. The event itself does not occupy such space in my heart the same, however.

On this particular evening, my then-boyfriend, who I was as madly in love with as a sixteen-year-old can be, refused to dance with me at the band banquet we were attending. I didn't put it together right away, but ultimately, he didn't want anybody to know we were dating. I mean, really, we both had this agreement, though begrudgingly so for me. I simply agreed because I wanted to be with him. Alas, I'm aware of the problems with this, but I was sixteen.

So afterward, he asked me to call my mom to see if I could stay out later. She said yes. He then called his mom, told her he'd be late, and told her exactly what was going on, though not with me in earshot. Then he drove me up into the mountains, over an hour out, to a small turnout on the side of the slope, a mountain, secluded, no light pollution, just us and the dark.

I got out of the car and tilted my head back, and the sky opened up above me, more stars than I knew what to do with, twinkles in that sky, an entire world above us that felt larger than the one below my feet. I was wearing a deep pink dress with a white sweep of cloth across the front (a dress I'd worn before, because I have always been the repurpose type of gal). He got back into the car, turned on the headlights, low beam, and let Frank Sinatra's "Dancing in the Dark" play.

As Frank sang, that voice that still stirs something like romantic angst in me at times, "And we can face the music together, dancin' in the dark," I leaned into him, my head on his shoulder, my hand flat against his chest, his arm around my waist. He turned me, slow, the headlights our only spotlight, pointed forward into nothing but night and darkness, now illuminated by his car. My heart pitter-pattered. I knew, right then, that I loved him, or again, as much as I could as a sixteen-year-old.

And he broke my heart, only a month later. While my grandpa was sick, and while he was housesitting for my family, I learned that he had been cheating on me, and that he'd convinced me the people trying to warn me only wanted to see us fail. That prompted us to go on a "break." Prior to that, he had chosen to stay in San Diego, not moving to Texas with his family, and he claimed it was because of me, our love. And I believed him at the time.

I remember my first love, a best friend of many years, was where I learned of the word unrequited. I was in the sixth grade, and I still, even 26 years later, swear that this was the first time I knew what love was. And I was so in love that when he talked about his crush, I would try to set them up or find opportunities for them to talk simply because I wanted him happy.

I was so in love that I still went to him when I had dating problems, when I was sad, when I got into a fight with my mother. He was my safe person. I sat on the phone with him as he cried from pain or hurt or disregard by a woman he was interested in or dating, wanting to hold him, love him, and care for him. I imagined our future together, but never let it get in the way of our friendship, because that was my priority. That love lasted for many years, to the point that I valued my friendship so much, I never wanted him to know how much I wanted to hold his hand, have his arms wrapped around me. And I never told him directly, and now we rarely talk. Yet somehow, I'm also okay with that, because ultimately, we had incredible moments of friendship and laughter, loss and gathering, and while it's sad to think about the fizzle, I can still appreciate the moments.

My self-esteem was so horrid that I believed my nose was too big, that I would stare in the mirror and hate the extra weight I carried, that my thighs were always too thick, reminded again and again throughout my life that I was "too fat." I was undesirable. 

Something I struggle with still today.

But in reality, I think it is because I'm too much, if I'm honest.

I think this is much of why it's hard for me to accept love and be loved as well.

But not necessarily just in the romantic ways.

There were other romantic loves, of course, and many just friends because I knew, or thought anyway, that if I told them, they'd walk away. So instead, I showed that love through homemade dishes, like ice creams or cookies, because that's how I say it best: fudge made and handed out every Christmas, remembering their drink of choice or trying to help them through difficult times, or through photos printed and framed, through late-night drives and favorite playlists. But these were no different than the ways I show love to my friend, either.

I never saw it as being "friendzoned," as I don't really see that as a "thing" so much, but rather, I knew the risks. I knew I would and could lose these friendships if I admitted my feelings. I was so in love with my friends as friends. That even the risk was not worth it to admit the love I felt romantically. I knew that if we tried, we could potentially lose each other, and I was not willing to take that risk. And then life happened. I grew up, and grew again. I married. I had children who now have opinions of their own and certainly use them. I collected a degree, and then another one, and then another. I lost people, and lost pieces of myself, and found some of them again, myself included. I lived abroad, and came home different. Heartbreak came more than once, and I struggled to process it, pretending it never happened.

I say this because, while it may seem contradictory to bring up love beyond romantic love and launch into two stories of just that, I really want to highlight that the way I love is deep, strong, and I struggle to get out of it, and I’m not sure I would change that, honestly.

I fall in love easily. Not with people, necessarily, but I do fall hard. I can walk down the street and fall in love with the beauty of the trees and leaves, admiring how quietly and carefully the leaf lands on the sidewalk or a flower stands out from the others. I fall in love with stories untold and unknown, imagining the feet before me, generations ago, who foraged, who comforted and loved their children, who embraced, who wrote and shared stories around a fire.

See, when I say I'm too much, I don't mean in a relationship, but in life.

I cry when a sad story about a dog waiting patiently for its owner crosses my feed. I hide social media stories of people who have hurt me. I am broken when friendships fizzle. And years of telling myself that I was too much instead shifted into me appearing unmoved, disconnected, and unaffected.

But, oh, that's so far from the truth. My heart pitter-patters when I hear people's voices. I'm excited when I see somebody thought of me by sending me a reel. I have to avoid parts of San Diego and certain corners of campus, places tied to a somebody I grew incredibly fond of, because while I can forgive, my heart there is still broken, remembering every moment, every interaction, and every sweet word uttered into my ear.

I fall in love with learning, resulting in me starting a new MA in August. I develop crush-level angst when I see David Tennant's The Doctor on the screen, wishing for the man with Converse shoes, 3D glasses, in a pinstripe suit arriving in a blue box. I fall in love with characters on the screen, not in hopes of marrying them, but with the convictions they hold, the moments they share, the humanity that brings us together to watch it, like Declan O'Hara from Rivals, not just because I've apparently discovered I like a mustache these days, but because of his convictions and his advocacy.

I fall in love with music, goosebumps littering my arms, reminding me of humanity that aligns with the beating heart that pumps blood through the veins neighboring those goosebumps, like Fouzia's "Hero," which makes me jam and bop my head, or Myles' "Stargazing," which makes me feel the exact love I am writing about here. I fell in love, deeply, with much of my heart, with flamenco.

I fall in love with community, when people cheer me on, bring me my favorite drink, or can recall silly little details about me. I fall in love with scenery I fly over, or traveling abroad. I fall in love with shops and stores, and restaurants. I fall in love with delicious food, tastes touching my tongue, reminding me how delicious, harmonious senses can create sensational flavors that let me taste emotions. Like how I fell in love with a simple dish next door to our flat, in Spain, a chicken sandwich with goat cheese, or the bocadillos at Ojo Patio. They were simple, but the taste created memories I've carried with me thousands of miles across the sea.

I also fell in love with joy and travel, in love with sitting on a bus, watching the same faces jump on and off on our route in Malaga, or the simple hellos from neighbors. I fell in love with grocery stores, namely Mercadona. I've fallen in love with rural Midwest sunsets, illuminating the skies like cotton candy and clouds soft like ruffled yarn. I have fallen in love with humid nights filled with sparkling fireflies. And I love the taste of sweet wine when I can finally find one I like.

I can list things, on and on, easily.

And there are things I don't fall in love with, of course. But I have immense emotions. Yet, the falling in love is what I appreciate the most.

I take these memories with me, feeling like I could last in them forever, whether it's a warm embrace or where I live. I fall in love so deeply that people may never know I'm in love with the sky, the night, the water, the experience, the person, or them. It's hard, and tough, and sad, because I want people to know the intensity with which I love, but I'm too much, too much.

I fall in love with the world, and I can't fall out, even with all of the horrors. My children hear me say daily how much I miss Spain, because I haven't fallen out of love with it and never will.

People I had been in love with occupy my mind, but not in hopes of being with them, loving them, or sadness, but rather for moments of joy and happiness of what we shared. Sometimes, heartbreak is heavy, yes, as I've shared, and some folks don't deserve that space in my heart and mind, or ours. But to feel the range of human emotions is wild and unique to us. And that is something I am also in love with.

Because I fall in love with the mundane, the everyday, in addition to the grandeur, the truth and honesty, and the connections.

We think of love as these moments of rain and pitter patter, but falling in love with the world, the daily, the little things, makes life worth living and beautiful.

I may be too much for many, and that's unfortunate. It's hard for me to accept sometimes, but I also am so fortunate to love so deeply because the world is filled with fire and devastation, heartbreak and heartache, death and destruction, and some of the greatest stories stem from the beauty of the mundane, being in love with the daily and the big and the small, and appreciating all there is in front of me.

So, love is never only the rain, the soaked hair, the hands finally interlocking after weeks of silence. It was a mountain turnout and a borrowed spotlight of a car headlight, the whimsy of twirling a dress or long car rides. It was a phone call I can still hear and the feelings attached to it, or long car rides blasting music. It is 8 cheesecakes stacked in my father's freezer and homemade chocolate chip ice cream, a single leaf choosing exactly where to land, and purple flowers covering the sidewalk. Love, for me, was never about being chosen once, dramatically, in the rain. It was choosing, over and over, in every ordinary place I let myself feel too much, and I can admit I don't know how to stop. And sure, it sets me up for heartbreak, but that doesn't mean I need to stop falling in love.

Yet, in a world that asks us to dehumanize ourselves and silence our love, to quiet our hearts, to refrain from proclamations of connection, I don't think that I can; I may keep the proclamations close to my heart, but it doesn't mean I want to, nor does it mean we should.