You know what's sexy?
Dressing up in lingerie and getting so fixated on a chunk of peeling skin, on your love's arm, mid-foreplay- that you sit on him for an hour and peel his flesh, in lieu of gettin' down. Right? Sexy, or just damn real? That, is love.
Tugging each others sleeves into random bathrooms, for a routine blow job, isn't always the way it works. Fuck you Romantic Comedy's and pornos for making me think once I got someone to routinely have sex with that all of a sudden I'd be porn-starring it out in public with lusty bathroom sex, and whipped cream bikinis. Turns out there's actually several moments when you'd prefer to box them in the face, than have an orgasm.
This weekend was weekend two of; Operation Kill Your Boyfriend.
Week one went something like; 5am Nebraska. Chelsea Talks Smack and Love groggily awake from a night of binge drinking in a tent on a lake.....fast forward: 7am Love says, "OH SHIT. I have to be playing at a WEDDING at 9am, Four. Hours. Away." Chelsea Talks Smack bursts into action; full speed ahead, precisely 100miles an hour ahead- My Love makes it to the wedding, on time. Hair awry in full Amadeus mode, ready to play horrendous violin versions of pop-punk tunes. Which is a whole separate blog unto why these people shouldn't be allowed to get married.
Weekend two: 2:30pm Chelsea Talks Smack is an hour into a hike up a mountain, her Love emails- because his phone has lost battery ( and yes, I miraculously had service).... "So, that wedding we're going to tonight in Breckenridge- two hours away- is at 5pm, not 7. I'm sorry, get here asap." Chelsea kicks her ass into gear sprinting down a steep terrain, arrives, sweaty- pissed, seething and in need of some fucking Pinot. Stat.
SOMETIMES- ALL THAT GUSHING ABOUT BEING IN LOVE, is thrown out the window when you feel like you've adopted them as a child, not as a partner- and when you wonder if someday they'll forget your unborn baby in a hot car because they can't remember their own damn wallet.
And that's the thing people; Love isn't always rainbows and icecream cake. You can't always expect that just because you set up the "perfect" weekend for love, the "perfect" dinner, and you wore your cute underwear- that everything is going to work out like planned.
Sometimes, you're tempted to run over each other with your car, or suffocate them in their sleep and say bad things about their Mother. Sometimes, when you're driving an hour out of the way to fill up their gas tank because their stranded and broke, or you're picking up their drunk ass from a strip club (*note that was me, not him) you wonder, WHAT. THE. EFF. am I doing???
...and if they're worth it; if they're loyal. If they're honest. If they love you all the way from your Back-ne, to your wonky little toe. Shaved or unshaven. On a tirade about "that-chick-who-can't-fucking-sing-and-looks-like-Celine-Dion-on-CRACK" or in your underwear dancing in all your pop tart glory to heinous Britney Spears tunes.....if they're still around THEN, you remember that everything is fickle in the long run.
If they remember your favorite candy, if they bring you flowers- but then remember it's your sister's birthday, so they save them until later- so you won't take away from her SHINE; if they they notice you shivering in the middle of the night and whisper stories into your year and wrap you tightly in a blanket, if they invite your cousins to grab a beer with them- so they can feel more like family, if they let you try on antique wedding rings at a Farmers Market booth simply because it amuses you- even though his Mother is a jeweler......
If they remember the perfume you were wearing when you first made love, if they can tell when you're getting anxious and they can talk you down.....if they share the last two cents to their name....If they fuck up on the small things but before you go to bed at night they're there, with you, reminding you that you're MAGNIFICENT.....
....if among ALL OTHER THINGS, they're doing THAT, they're worth every rushed arrival, every forgotten detail, every shitty quip. Those things are trivial compared to the weight of what LOVE actually is. And it turns out, love means calling each other "punk ass" just as much as you call each other Hunny Love.
Eventually, if it lasts- which under most circumstances in a relationship you hope that is does, you're bound to piss each other off. You're bound to mention that dude who you slept with in the past and is "so fantastic, you have to meet him!" one too many times before a fuse blows. You'll most likely vomit on each other's good shoes after too much free champagne or a mean case of Chinese food stomach poisoning. You'll probably say something that makes their Grandmother blush on accident, or insult their brother-in-law without noticing, until you hear crickets. You may skip out on an anniversary, or offend them when you really meant to give them a compliment. Point is, you'll fuck up. You'll fuck up, and you'll move on- because in most cases, it's totally worth it.
WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN ANGRY ABOUT, BUT FORGIVEN BECAUSE YOU LOVED SOMEONE????