The Golden Years

My grandparents just had their 50th anniversary last weekend. Fifty years and still married to each other, isn't that wild? At the end of the night, after most of their friends and family left, I found myself facing the dance floor watching Nana and Papa slowly drift to a country love ballad. It was romantic, to say the least. I saw my Nana singing softly along with the lyrics and my Papa whispering into her ear, making her laugh and causing them to stumble a bit. Photos of their life were fading in and out on the projection screen behind their dancing, providing little details that shed light on their long lives and rich back story.

I wonder how my memoir will read (when I'm finished with it). I wonder if my golden years will resemble theirs, and whether I'll find myself slow-dancing to long love songs from my teenhood. What will that look like? Who will it be with? Am I even comfortable with that idea, of investing myself so deeply into someone? We would shuffle our velcro shoes across the dance hall, smiling and perhaps tearing up, hugging each other and feeling complete. It sounds almost dreamy, and safe. Secure. Comfortable. Vulnerable, but protected by our insistant and understanding love for one another.

I'm clearly rambling now. Truth is, I'm a two-bit, good-fer-nothin' romantic and I wouldn't have it any other way. These ideas of love and relationships can become so convoluted and complicated that it makes it not seem worth it at times. But as hard as I try, I can't help but WANT to love and be loved. I feel like I'm designed, wired, created for love.

Okay, WHOA, slow down tiger. I'm easily excitable.