Writing about Love

How is that in all my time blogging I have never mentioned my beautiful girlfriend?

She had to point it out one night in order for me to even notice. At first I felt terrible. How could I defend myself? I've come here and I've written about my dying dog, about Canadian nationalism, about airports, about incompetent bees... but never have I spent an ounce of my time to write about the one thing that I love the most in my life (even more than soccer, believe it or not).

I've been thinking about this dilemma for some time and I'm still not sure that I have come to an answer. I'm not sure that I ever will. It's inexcusable, really. Alot of writers have based their entire careers on writing about love, as if there were nothing else. I, however, have prioritized talking about Cee-Lo Green and natural disasters before love. How could this be?

Well, let's pretend to understand this phenomenon in one way--the only way that I know how. When I wake up in the morning, it is often to the sound of my phone ringing; it's my girlfriend on the other side. She speaks with a smile, I can hear it in her voice. She makes it sunny outside, no matter what the weather is. That wasn't a cliche metaphor, this girl actually has the power to do that. She's like some sort of super-hero or something with cool superpowers. I usually tell her to go away.

I get my day started and go about my business. Before long, my super-hero girlfriend calls me again and says in a cute voice, "Wha doooooin?" Now I'm the one that's smiling. We talk, then I tell her to go away. And she says, "One more minute?"

A bit later she calls me again. This time she's upset. She tells me I don't love her. She asks me why I don't call her. And I only have one answer for her, "Because I knew that YOU were gonna call me..." I know, I'm weak. Who says that? But I admit, I find myself taking her for granted much more than I realize: She's there, she'll call me, she knows I love her, why go out of my way when I can just... oh I dunno, watch some soccer or something? So I apologize and tell her I love her.

A bit later she calls me again and she says, "come ovvvver?"

I know, I seem childish, equating love to making my girlfriend happy. The point is that my day comes and goes and I don't ever have to dwell on the stresses of my love life. She makes me smile, she makes me laugh, she makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside (after 7 years, this is quite a feat), she pisses me off and aggravates me, but then she smiles like royalty and asks me to cuddle. There's nothing better than this feeling of being wanted, of being needed. I don't ever need to worry that she will wake up one day and not love me, and she knows she will never need to consider the opposite. Our bond is invincible. This is called comfortable love. And that's what I have. I have a sense of completeness in that department that only she can satisfy, and only in her way. The fact that I don't have to think about her in stressful terms all the time allows me the comfort to think about life from the perspective of someone who is emotionally complete. This affords me one of the greatest advantages a person can aspire to. It allows me to put all of my energies to greater benefit in everything that I do. My life is interwoven with love, and not a day goes by that I don't think about this and recognize how lucky I am.

Stephanie, I didn't write this note because you told me to. I wrote it because I want you to know that I take you for granted the same way I take myself for granted. We are so close, so in love, so much a part of one another that we are essentially one. All of my best memories are with you--the time I made you leave work and I met you in Gage park with 11 real roses and a 1 fake one; the time I stole a stuffed turtle; the time I bought a Moroccan drum in Berlin; the time I rode my first ski lift and spent the duration of the descent on my ass; the time I went to the gym and noticed that my glove was ripped...and it goes on forever like this. Please forgive me for not always calling you and giving you the attention that you deserve; it's not because I don't care, but rather because it would be impossible to care any more than I do. I wasn't lying when I told you that we are perfect.

And for the record, I've had this note open, in progress but unpublished, for more than a month. No matter how I write it, it seriously never seems good enough. I want to work on it for longer, to make sure I get it right. This is important to me. But I realised that if I did that, I would never publish it because I would never find the right words. So I've come to the conclusion that I will write a book about you one day... and that the book will not have any words in it at all. You will be the only one who could ever read it and understand it completely. The only thing the book will have is a title:

"How do I love thee?/ Let me count the ways..."