An ode to love

I wore excruciatingly tight plastic snake skin pants to the wedding. I was invited via sms a few days before due to someone falling ill and being unable to make it. It was a themed wedding, and the theme, was ‘rock and roll’. Lacking any clear direction on which era I should dress for I went for the loudest and most impractical choice. Now, I have no intention of fathering children at any point in the near future, but my keen sense of fashion and my willingness to endure discomfort for the sake of said fashion may have ensured that the actual fathering of the children is no longer a viable choice. To top it all off I discovered that the ‘official’ invite was quite specific on the theme – fifties rock and roll. I was ahead of my time, by about thirty years. I was the pink plastic elephant in a room full of well-dressed mice.

The groom, years ago when single, purchased a plane ticket and set his plans in motion to move overseas to London. Time for a change and time for a new adventure. Most inconvenient and not long before he was meant to leave he met his bride to be, and, most unexpectedly and amazingly he fell in love. They both did. I know this part of the story well, because almost the exact same thing happened to me. But from then our stories diverged. They fought for their love and their gamble paid off. Whereas I didn’t realise what I had found nor did I think I deserved it. I didn’t plan a future in which I was happily in love. I actively planned and promoted a future in which my ‘love’ found another partner because I was overseas and unavailable. My plan worked.

I never understood how people could fall in and out of love so easily. Egotistically I liked to believe that I was more emotionally mature and stable than my love-sick and love-addicted friends. My superior brain chemistry prevented these wild and passionate swings of emotional co-dependency. At the ripe old age of thirty-one I’ve only been ‘in love’ twice. The first time was a love grown painstakingly over time out of familiarity and friendship. It wasn’t passionate and it wasn’t sustainable; at the end of the day love shouldn’t be based predominantly on familiarity. The second time I fell in love it hit my like a speeding train. Finally I understood what all my friends had been experiencing. It was amazing, amazing and scary. I was twenty-eight. I moved overseas not really understanding what I was leaving behind. I didn’t fight for it because I didn’t think I deserved it and I didn’t think I was worthy of someone who within such a short period of time had made such a profound impact on me and my happiness. I invented, promoted and desperately clung to reasons as to why it couldn’t work.

By the end of the wedding speeches I was incredibly sad and at the same time incredibly moved, and, also, a little bit drunk. They had spirits over the bar at the wedding! Amazing! Seriously! A wedding with spirits on the bar! In sheer excitement I wet myself just a little bit, which, considering I was wearing plastic pants was a very bad idea.

Age changes perspective. As I age my focus on a career, or owning a house, or being a normal respectable part of whatever society deems is currently normal and respectable continues to pale in comparison to finding someone to share my life with. Wearing fake snake skin pants while getting drunk and slowly loosing feeling in my testicles at my friends wedding has made it clearer than ever that love is worth fighting for, and that love, more than anything else, is what will sustain you through this life.

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