I have loved and been loved many times. Falling in love is easy for me, especially when it was the one thing that could make me feel good.
It’s a bit freaky, because I’d like to think that I’m a person making choices, instead of a machine whose choices are programmed by hormones and neurotransmitters. But romance is both me making my actions mean something and the chemicals pushing me to do things.
A perfect match? I don’t think so. I think there are many good matches and bad matches and, well, come to think of it, perfect matches. That’s because judgments are human things. The world doesn’t care who pairs up with whom. It is only we who decide if our love is perfect or not. Perfect is a matter of taste and of choice.
I don’t believe in perfection, so I don’t find it. Other people do believe in it, and so they do find it. But I could call my marriage perfect if I wanted to, and who is anyone else to say otherwise? My wife loves me more that I ever thought I deserved. She has stood with me through some pretty serious trials, and I would stick with her, and have stuck with her, through her own trials.
On first blush, I wouldn’t call it perfect. But now I realize I can call it perfect if I want. It may have it’s problems, but it is a relationship like no other, and it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks of it. It’s what we think of it. I might not have done this even a few days ago, but I think I do have a perfect marriage. And if not perfect, amazing. But it is perfect and that does not mean I couldn’t have had a different perfect marriage with someone else.
Human perfection, I think, is not necessarily a pretty thing. It may not look perfect. It may not fit some ideal form. But for all that, inside the soul of the thing, humans are as perfect as they consider themselves to be. Why not decide to be perfect? Why not?