"We were frightened of being left alone for the rest of
our lives. Only people of a certain disposition are frightened of being alone
for the rest of their lives at the age of 26, and we were of that
disposition."
I had completely forgotten this line from High Fidelity,
uttered with dry perfection by John Cusack, until I was searching my inbox and
accidentally pulled up an old email conversation with one of my exes. For
a period of time during my first job, he and I had exchanged lengthy emails,
often including quotes from songs or movies. Upon reflection, this may be
a sort of truncated, digitalized version of the long, lost mix tape (yes, I
remember them-- hell, I even made a few, thank you very much). I had
included this particular quote in one of the email conversations in which I
distinctly remember falling more in love with him than I already was: he had
admitted doubt and deep seated fear to me, and I loved him all the more for
it. It was an unguarded moment of honesty, and the fact that those were
rare should've told me a lot. Ah well.
Recently finding this email chain seemed oddly apropos,
especially in light of some conversations I had with my best friend a few
weeks ago when I visited her. We were talking about our imminent entry
into the next decade of our lives, though my entry is a couple of months more imminent
than hers, when she made a particularly sharp (and hilarious) jibe about my
impending ancientness (har har-- don't quote me).
"Owch!" I said, recovering from dumbfounded
surprise. I was shocked, not hurt-- she had never ribbed me that hard
before about turning 30. And very shortly, I found out why.
She grinned at me unapologetically. "I can tease
you about it because you're not afraid of dying alone anymore." I
laughed sheepishly as she hollered at me and a perhaps sympathetic universe,
"Like I always knew you wouldn't!!"
Later in our visit, when her sainted husband took charge of
their two small children so she and I could have dinner for a second time
over a weekend (marvelous man, that), she told me something else that meant
the world to me: she said that though she'd never met him, she knew my
boyfriend was the one for me. She carefully (and, since she's my best
friend, needlessly) clarified that she meant what she was saying in the best
way when she said that she'd noticed, since I'd been with him, that I had
become the best version of myself: happier, calmer, self-doubt quieted and
insecurities significantly assuaged.
This woman has been my other half for more than half of my
life, and her quiet and heartfelt endorsement of the man who is becoming my
other other half... well, let's say her good opinion is something I hold above
almost all else, so her telling me what she did was invaluable to me.
And yes, for the record, a person can consist of more than
two halves, and in the paradoxical way that love tends to defy gravity and
mathematics, none of those halves is diminished by the presence of other
halves.
The thing is, for a long time, I truly believed that there
might be something wrong with the half that's just me. When boys and men
took an interest, it always seemed to be against their better judgment-- as
though there was something fascinating and gratifying about my maelstrom of
energy and attention, but that ultimately, it wasn't worth the effort. I
wasn't worth the effort. I was too much for anybody with good sense: too
opinionated, too outgoing, too needy. Too much. Too... me.
In retrospect, it makes me sad to think of the things that
we can come to believe about ourselves, even as the people who love us holler
and plead that those things are nonsense.
To be honest, as my exhausting, infuriating, and numbing
match.com subscription came to an end last winter, I began to wonder if maybe I
should begin to explore other narratives for myself-- ones in which not having
a romantic partner was a regrettable fact, but in which I could find other ways
to invest my love and make my way. Maybe love for me would come
differently, but would still be meaningful.
When John Cusack says it, yes, it does sound ridiculous to
fear dying alone in your twenties. But I think it's easy to dismiss
seemingly silly fears without acknowledging that some of them are fueled by
less than silly realities: self-doubt, sadness, loneliness, and discouragement.
It's really hard to have faith that something will happen if it's never
happened before.
Maybe that's why I spent a significant amount of time in the
first few months of my relationship with my love waiting for the other shoe to
drop. Spoiler alert: it hasn't, and I'm not waiting anymore (I'm too busy
being obscenely happy).
What the boy and I had shared, outside of emails and
occasionally a bed, was built on bravado and banter, which is exciting but
ultimately unsustainable and unsatisfying. What I share with my love
still continues to surprise me: there's an honesty at its core, a bravery that
humbles me, and it's still somehow silly and funny and flirty. Make no
mistake, it is still fucking scary to be in love, and it's even scarier when you
realize slowly-- and then all at once-- that this is the love that you want for
the rest of your life. This is the love you will fight with, fight for,
wash and dry and rip and mend and stretch and be exasperated with and amazed by
and treasure and spill coffee on and grow up, into, and together with.
I don't fear dying alone
anymore. I fear a shit-ton of stuff, but not that. Because, for
lack of a better term, I'm in it to win it. I'm in it for keeps.
And improbably, insanely, miraculously, so is he.
There is no moral superiority to those who have found a true love. I'm not smarter or wiser for being in love-- though I am smart enough to know that what I am is stupid fucking lucky: stupid lucky to have found and been found by this smart, kind, compassionate, hilarious, sexy, goofy, tall, weird, thoughtful, adorable, nerdy, muppety man, who has excellent taste in scotch and makes me happier than I have ever been. The odds are obscenely high that we wouldn't have found each other. But we did.
I still don't really understand it. To my mind, there
was no rhyme or reason why I would meet him when I did, and that we would be
perfect for each other in the ways that we are. Maybe there are greater
forces at work-- not fate exactly, but some combination of luck, gravity, and
coincidence that happened to pull in the right direction at the right time with
the right people.
Which, now that I think about it, is exactly what fate
is.
Will wonders never cease?
