If you’re reading this, it’s *not* too late.
With a magnified face, my mom somehow still managed to press her mouth closer to the screen, “Remind me how you two met again?”
My boyfriend put his hand on my thigh. Buckled in, I relaxed. It was his turn to tell the story.
Maybe I got it from my momma: I love asking couples how they met.
Despite gruesome details and drawn-out exchanges, I’m usually never satiated. More often than not (even after some of the most romantic and I-don’t-believe-in-destiny-but-this-is-making-me-think-twice stories) I usually feel desperate for more.
For me, the beginning of a story is the most compelling part. Even as the climax approaches and inches toward resolution, there is nothing more riveting than a good beginning.
“It was at your favourite coffee shop, right?” my mom added.
“I didn’t even notice Jodi,” he said, “It was Ralph, the puppy she was babysitting at the time, I noticed. Looking at him made me miss my dogs and as I said that out loud, I followed his leash up to Jodi’s hands… and that’s, well, that’s how we met.”
The heteronormative trope of Prince Charming teaches us that the love of our life will find us… one day. Sometimes we protect ourselves reminding each other that there are several “Ones” for us out there.
This is how we eat our cake and have it too. We supercharge the myth by dispelling the assumption that there’s only one Prince (or Princess) Charming out there. Instead, we admit there might be a couple of loves of our life.
The problem with the myth, supercharged or not, is that it leaves us in a crippling place: optimistically (or naively, pick your poison) waiting. It makes us externalize love. We romantically render it as something we find instead of something we are.
The myth of the love of our life encourages a notion of finality — of both arrival and conclusion. It evokes the comfort of home and suggests the end of a journey.
The myth is dangerous as fuck. And it’s the reason you haven’t met the “Love Of Your Life” yet.
I don’t know if my boyfriend is the love of my life, but I can’t imagine not choosing to be with him. Maybe that’s the same thing, but regardless, it’s not the point.
We met as two people co-existing, enjoying their americanos and almond-milk cappuccinos on a Saturday morning. We met as two people not looking for much of anything, but caffeine and a spot to sit outside.
It seems to me not searching might just be how we find the loves of our lives.
If you think that love is something you find, you’ve got it all wrong. If you think that someone is going to show up and be “the One” (at least for now), yup, you’ve still got it all wrong.
Love is what we’re made of. It’s how we think, feel, and behave that demonstrates it.
But of course, we can choose to think that love isn’t what we’re made of. We can choose to start looking for love out there. In, you know, “the Ones”.
We can choose to not introduce ourselves to strangers and try their company on for size. We can choose to be nervous and passive.
Alternatively, we can choose to not be scared to express how we feel and what we need and want. We can choose to not judge the other person if they can’t provide that for us. We can choose when to say yes and how to say no.
The “Ones” don’t show up on your doorstep, pre-packaged and ready to go, but they do show up.
Are you ready to meet them? All of them?
Are you ready to give generously and notice how it’s received? Are you ready to set boundaries, offer forgiveness, and be just as ready to walk away from mistreatment as you are to see how the whole commitment thing goes?
If you are, you might be ready to start meeting the loves of your life by becoming a little more intrigued by who you are and what you’re made of.
We don’t find the loves of our life. We make them.
Source: Jodi Rempel | Medium