Love letter

Dear you,

I'm a little tired of waiting.

I know it's a little ridiculous to expect so much of life at such a young age.  I'm not even 25 and I have all these grandiose expectations of what life should be. I should be totally self-assured, I should be graduated from college and have a decent-paying job. I should be out of debt, have a decent savings fund, and I should own a nice little house with a workshop filled with an old BMW, two motorcycles, and a Tacoma 4x4.

I should have something resembling love in my life. Be it an understanding and dead-sexy wife and two kids or some devilishly handsome architect and our shelter-rescue mutt, there should be someone I'm sharing my life with.

But instead, I'm renting a small (admittedly cozy) apartment that I share with five other guys (all of whom I like a lot). I'm in debt, I make a pittance at my part-time job, and I'm doing pretty poorly at school. And at night, I get into my twin bed alone and fall asleep.

Don't get me wrong, I'm fine with where I'm at (except for my poor grades and debt, perhaps).  I've got good friends and I like the place I live. I kinda like school and I enjoy learning new things. My family loves me (you should see the care packages I get on the regular). Life's good. I even love my car. Like, LOVE my car.

I'm good with waiting, but at the same time, I'm ready for you to come around, open my eyes to the world of fulfilling, expressive, passionate love.

I guess, until then, I'll save my love for you. I've got a lot of it to give. I look forward to surprising you with flowers or chocolates or a night out just because I felt like it. I look forward to driving home from work, proverbial tail wagging because I'm excited to see you once I get through this traffic. I'm even looking forward to fighting, to hating you for a few minutes before I cool down. I look forward to traditions and anniversaries and birthdays and holidays and kids and pets and a messy house and grey hairs and probably some balding (heaven forbid).

I think I've mentioned this before, but I'm reading Love in the Time of Cholera, by Gabriel García Márquez. And yes, I have been reading it for almost a year.  Books are slow-going for me.

In any case, I'm really enjoying it.  The first half or so was ridiculously romantic, written in such a syrupy, overwrought style that I secretly love, but then, it evened out by about midway through and became much more self-possessed and realistic.  I love it.

Anyway, I've been thinking about love as much as usual, maybe more so because I've been reading this 60-year-long love story, and I decided to write a love letter.