Everyone should know how it feels to stand around in a muggy August hot kitchen, drinking wine too fast, talking too fast, changing songs too fast in the company of friend-love and love-love, wiping the smudged eyeliner out from under your eyes to see, so clearly, exactly where I am.
To be 23 and on my own was great. It was great, terrible fun. And it was what I needed, even when I didn't know that I did.
But to be 24. To be 24 and not on my own is more happiness and more sadness than I've ever known. And everyone should know how it feels to feel both.
Because when I'm wiping the playground sand off my best friend's shoulders as he runs off into the night, chasing something that even he can't say, I wish these moments of swing set park declaration huge, massive, overwhelming happiness for every living, breathing, thinking thing in the world. I watch the rest of them jump off picnic tables and let their feet take them where they're going. I know that just because I've been found...well, that doesn't mean that so many aren't still lost.
But the greatest thing about a love like this?
All it takes to heal the world inside my head is having him, at the end of the night, to rest it on.
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For a certain type of woman who risks losing her identity in a man, there are all those questions . . . until you get to the point and know that you really are living a love story.
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