Ever since I was a little girl I dreamed about falling in love. My parents weren’t progressive in the sense that they didn’t care if I played with Barbies and watched only princess movies, and thus I grew up like millions of other little girls hopefully awaiting the arrival of their “Prince Charming”. As I got older the qualifications for my Prince Charming shifted as I fell for one guy after another. My diary entries documented my willingness to fall for just about anyone in my search for what I believed to be “the one”. I went through a phase in middle school when I liked skaters, and guys in bands. In high school I liked guys with bare feet and dreadlocks, in college…I didn’t so much care if my Prince Charming was a “frat-star” or a “hippie-freak” but subconsciously began searching for a guy who could always manage to say the right thing.
I wanted those “Good Morning Gorgeous” texts and a best friend to comfort me as I cried, I wanted someone who would always know just when to reassure me, and how to poetically sweep me off my feet. After years of Disney Movies, Taylor Swift love songs, and Nicholas Sparks themed expectations my picture of Prince Charming seemed centered around always having the “perfect”, “charming” words just flow elegantly. I wanted love songs, I wanted hand written poetry, I wanted to be stared at longingly over a candlelit dinner and to hear my true love whisper something life changing and prolific. When I found someone who could talk the talk, I quickly forgot that there is more to love than just talk.
You can send daily “Good Morning Beautiful” texts, and write love notes on parchment paper and proclaim that you want to spend forever with someone, but at some point these words just become noise. At some point , it hit me (like a big yellow school bus), that I want a whole lot more than a guy who can form coherent sentences.
It’s easy to whisk me away with the romance of words. I don’t think I’ll ever outgrow the romance of an authentic hand written love letter. The “write” words can make me swoon, if you know what I mean. I’ll always need a bit of verbal reassurance, and I think some part of me will always associate these grand Hollywood romances with the perfect dialogue. However, I’m starting to think that love isn’t all about words all the time. If it were how could there be so many feelings that fill us to the brim with happiness forcing us to smile from within? If love were all about the words we say what would all of those little moments mean, the times spent laying in the grass saying nothing out of the ordinary while simultaneously knowing there is nowhere in the world you would rather be? If love was all about words how could we explain the times we fall for the ones less eloquent than the Cummings(s) and Neruda(s) of the world? How would we explain our way into getting butterflies from the the stuttering, bumbling, fools who just so happen to steal our hearts with something other than impressive articulation.
I’ll forever have a special love for words.
But perhaps words and love do not define one another in the manner I originally imagined.