Whodathunk

"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?