You know that age old Corinthians verse, “Love is patient, love is kind…” (Corinthians 13:4)? You know the one. Your cousin had the pastor deliver it at her wedding.
It’s total bullshit.
And the reason isn’t because I’m jaded and don’t believe in love anymore. Love is certainly real and I’m a sucker for it. Hell, I’ve been in love for almost fourteen years and I’m grateful for every second love looks in my general direction.
But the fact is, it sure isn’t sporting the shiny, dewy face that Corinthians makes it out to have. In all of human history, it never has.
True love is…
Hard. If you forget to say its name, it dries up like an old orange peel and gets eaten by cockroaches for eleven years.
Love complains even when you’ve tried your best to fix the lawnmower or build a deck and the nails are crooked.
Love brushes away your hand in public out of embarrassment. And love gropes your ass at the Red Sox game.
Love changes the channel even though you’re waiting for that final score.
Love burns the brownies.
Love insists you always have to be better in order to stay with it.
Love doesn’t listen.
Love is a bitch.
Love has a short memory. It forgets all the back rubs and foot massages you gave. But it never forgets the time you missed its birthday.
Love has bad breath. Love doesn’t floss its teeth.
Love changes its outfit three times a day and gives you a surprised look when you say you’ll be late for your dinner reservation.
Love jumps to conclusions and corrects you needlessly.
Love gets caught in bed with a circus clown and then blames you for not being there for it. Then love will come in the next morning tear-stained, begging for another chance.
Love is insecure. It looks in the mirror constantly and checks its coiffe.
Love brings up the one thing it knows sets you off (accidentally all the time), and then waits for few hours before apologizing.
Love tries to help by offering advice you don’t need. Then love takes it personally that you don’t want its advice.
Love doesn’t ask for directions and gets you lost on a dirt road in Argentina.
Love gets drunk and stumbles home at three in the morning.
Love goes to make you coffee in the morning and forgets to pour it.
Love doesn’t want to have sex anymore. And love wants to have sex all the time.
Love has two children and gets overweight. Love accuses you of eating jelly beans for breakfast.
Love buys a treadmill that sits in the basement for years collecting dust.
Love barfs all over your new shirt and apologizes sweetly.
Love yells at you when you forgot to buy milk. Again.
Love is a criminal.
Love is scared and petty and brings up the hurts it had from eight years ago because it can’t let go. Love leaves the remnants of a deuce in the toilet and lights a match for good measure. Love forgets to open your door first, and throws the cardboard in the garbage when the recycling bin is right next to it. Love thinks it wants a threesome but then decides that it’s too complicated. Love is afraid to trust you because you let it down, and love forgets so easily the little things you do to keep it happy. Love keeps you up way too late at night watching Rush documentaries and love convinces you that a six pack is overrated. Love keeps old shirts that have holes in them and love forgets to pick up the kids at school sometimes. Love is selfish and cracks open a beer without asking you if you want one first. Love sneaks in digs that hit below the belt, and love refuses to do laundry.
Love is lumpy and awkward and sometimes it hurts so bad you want to die. It says the wrong thing and it goes bald. It tries and fails and tries again. It keeps trying until it is old and dead and dusty. And even then, it still hovers in the air between the things it did and couldn’t do to make you happy.
Love is love. It does the best it can and you just have to love it back.
Love just is.
Pretty sure you couldn’t think up anything better.
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