Love is.

Love is this.

3am and I’m sitting on the couch watching episode 18, season 2 of The Blacklist. I was last on season 1, maybe the finale? Yeah, my socks didn’t match today.

It’s him. That guy. The one that ‘put a ring on it’ to my extreme suprise the first week of my dream job. Huh? What? How? He left me in the dust! On his opposite, low-on-the-totem pole night shift schedule he sits up all night screaming at strangers on Madden live and binges on Netflix.

Jerkface?  Dream man. I don’t care! I sit here thinking how? How am I able to love. like. this?! HOW?

Lately I’ve been thinking how awesome a handful of the young ladies in my class are.  They’re funny,  hard working,  and so, so kind. I was a nightmare.  Exactly what I pray these girls don’t suffer. Don’t take years to mend.

He is love. He knows this,  accepts this,  mourns this.  I came to him broken and stay with him whole. We just spent an hour Google Maping how far our dream house is from every state forest, brewery, and coffee shop. And goats. How many goats take to “mow” 7 acres? Is it gross to make your own goat cheese? Am I insane?

I also ate french fries for dinner, with malt vinegar.  And banana ice cream. I never knew what malt vinegar was and I still don’t know how I actually feel about bananas.

Love is. Love, pure and true, is just being, saying, adapting each other’s weird food habits, and spontaneously crying when thinking how much I have to grade, how much I can’t imagine having any other career, and how lucky I am to have this man, this mutt, this family,  these friends, this love.  This is what it is.

Love is.

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