I tried to write a post on Friday, about my dinner the previous night with BF David and how we walked through Lincoln Center afterwards. I wanted to write about how romantic it was to sit at the big fountain, talking, kissing, throwing pennies in and making wishes. I thought about the wealthy people around us, attending an opera or ballet or musical or black tie fundraiser and how all of their money pooled together could never buy this magical moment that BF David and I were sharing. It was so hushed and cinematic and I wondered how many people noticed just how pretty the city looked that night.
I wanted to write something to convey every glittering detail, but I knew that no matter how many beautiful words I tried to string together, I couldn't do the moment justice.
I looked at BF David and my heart gave a squeeze and I got that feeling I always get when I'm with him, that there is no place in the world I would rather be, and I say that as somebody who has just seen some pretty fucking gorgeous places. Yet none of them rival the fairy land that New York City has all of a sudden become to me. Sure, there are still crowded, airless subways and streets smelling of piss, strewn with garbage. There are homeless people sharing sidewalks with spoiled, over-plasticized trophy wives. There is still an air of cynicism and stress and haughtiness, an atmospheric cocktail unique to this maddening, glorious city.
And yet, I am still in a haze that gives everything a halo effect.
I am not used to this kind of happiness. BF David keeps telling me to get used to it.
Growing up, I was fed a steady diet of stories with happy endings, romances in celluloid, song, and paper. I developed grandiose expectations for how my personal love story should play out. As I got older, I got involved in plenty of less-than-perfect relationships, but I learned to romanticize things like long distances, poverty, infidelity, and even mental illness. I had a running mantra in my head that assured bliss-- just as soon as he got a new job or got over his ex or moved to New York or realized how much he loved me or any other solution that never was.
This time, it's different. The initial reservations I had about David when I first met him (the actor thing, the mixed signals he sent Polly when they were briefly involved last summer, the fact that he was named David and I had sworn off all men with that name), all of them vanished when I got to know him. David has been straightforward about how much he likes me from the very beginning. He did not wait three days to call. He changed previous plans to see me. He has raved about me to friends, family, and coworkers. He brings me flowers and sends sweet notes and tells me how beautiful I am. He does all the things I trained myself to stop hoping for.
BF David's affection has never scared me away; on the contrary, it has mirrored and nurtured my own. He is a gentleman, he is smart, attractive, he makes me laugh, and his kisses make me melt. When I am with him, it is damn near impossible to stop smiling. In other words, I'm nuts about the guy.
This last month has been pure magic. With or without Europe, it has been the happiest month of my life. All of those romances that I internalized growing up, all the fairy tales I made myself stop believing in these last couple of years, are coming true anyway. I never imagined that a little party on April 15th would spark something so miraculous.
Happy one month anniversary to us. This is just the beginning.