An Impractical Love
There's a song in here somewhere, waiting to be written.
Songs about the good times and the bad. Songs about “for better, for worse.”
Songs about growing up together. Becoming real adults with real responsibilities. Adulting and wishing we could go back to simpler days where we didn’t care as much or try so hard all the time. When we both know only enough about each other to keep being intrigued. Instead of thinkin we have the other figured all out.
Songs about staying curious. About seeing a lover through new eyes. About giving her a look as if to say, playfully, “Whoa, who is this version? This is a side of your I haven’t seen before.”
Songs about being in awe at the way she moves through the world. Noticing her uniqueness. Seeing her stand out in a crowd, whether she intends to or not.
Songs about excitement for the future we’re building together. The joy of setting up dominoes only to know them down. Oh, the pointlessness of play.
Songs about impractical love. Doing things that don’t make sense because I’ve been moved by the other to express, exclaim what it is I’m feeling towards them. A manifestation of the love they make me feel, spread out into the physical world.
An impractical love, is not my love language. My love language is taking the trash out, and doing the dishes, and wiping down the counter. And paying a mortgage and visiting your family. But are these really sacrifices of am I doing what’s expected, and telling myself that it’s a big deal, when it’s not?
Love is never practical. It’s not.
Love is unimaginable. We’re not partners, problem-solvers, teammates to help each other. We’re so much more, and so much less practical than that. We’re just here for the other’s enjoyment.
Because we found each other and keep finding each other. And we’re curious enough to stick around to see how your story unfolds.
Impractical love means fighting over inconsequential shit.
Impractical love means surprising each other with gifts — small tchotchkes that make bystanders, who don’t know any better, say, “Well it’s the thought that counts, anyway.”
Impractical love is taking the scenic route. Or the long way home because the vibes are better on street Z than they are on street A.
Impractical love is driving around the block a few extra times because Billy Joel’s Vienna cam on the radio just as we pulled up to our driveway.
Impractical love is ditching your friends to spend more time with you. Or skipping out of work early to do nothing in particular with you.
Impractical love is having sex when we should be sleeping, and know we’ll be tired the next morning, albeit satisfied. And it’s not one of those mornings where we have the liberty to stay in bed extra long.
Impractical love is impulse buying the biggest puppy we’ve ever seen.
Impractical love is giving the puppy a bone that fucks up his stomach so bad that he shits his brains out for two whole days straight.
Impractical love is giving yourself fully to each other even though it’s vulnerable and scary as fuck and at any moment there’s a non-zero chance that my love will be ripped out of my chest.
Impractical love is saying something in a song or in a poem even though it would be easier and more succinct to say it simply in regular, bottom-shelf words.
Impractical love is cutting each other down with words, only to have to do the work of building each other up. Again and again.
