megfowler.com

Okay, you win.

I’m officially admitting I’m clueless and goofy and difficult and cranky and kooky and I don’t understand you at all.

I think I tried to pretend I “got” you for a long time, mostly because I had fun being with you and liked some of the things you liked and appreciated that you eschewed drama and enjoyed hot wings and were so very, very nice for me to look at and touch.

I don’t get you, though. Not that this has stopped me from wanting to be around you.

Honestly, some of you have been the best friends I’ve ever had. Ever will have. That I still have.

I can remember harmony sung during a million long drives, and thousands of hockey games watched and shouted at, and late-night walks through the crisp, diamond-y snow, and hundreds of goofy phone calls about nothing and for no reason, and that one time we tossed bits of banana at raccoons down below the balcony.

I am thankful that you remembered my drink order at Starbucks, that you gave hugs in which there was no “pat pat pat” on the back, that you did the two-step with me at the wedding where we knew no one, that you bought the blue shirt I pointed at, that you stood with me in the pantry and screamed in frustration at the ceiling, that you cried when when we were parked in front of the train station with nothing left to say except, “It’s going to be okay.”

Then there are the others.

The much smaller group of you that have made my heart feel as though it were dipped in gasoline and set on the BBQ to flame up like the Olympic torch. Or at least rubbed down with Tiger Balm. For months.

You have this power over me, and though I’ve tried to figure out the how or why and pull patterns from the crazy quilt of crushes and infatuations and unabashed hopes, I don’t know how you do it. Or why I let you.

All I know is that I when I feel it, it’s the best and worst thing in the world.

The best, because I am good at falling and lighting up like Las Vegas and becoming a pheromone-laden dervish.

The worst, because it leaves a terrible little pile of ash in the middle of my chest when the fire goes out.

You turn me into a spewer of metaphors, a maker of playlists, a neurotic ball of contradictions and wishes, and nothing like the girl I want to be in a relationship.

You know the one, that girl… she plays it cool, she stands up straight, she makes your friends laugh, she knows when to wink, she keeps things in perspective, she does not wear sticky lip gloss, she does not scoff at your gift of teddy bear or cheerful mug, and she has the internal gauge that says, “This does not work!”

She does not write passive-aggressive emails or texts, she does not emote with her hands, she does not trip over air, she does not blame you for her next big man mistake, and she does not — oh, this is key — believe it can work when all signs indicate otherwise.

She knows when her BBQ heart is still medium rare, and she takes it OFF the damn grill.

I’m not this bright. Which you know. I’m the type left sweeping up the aforementioned ashes and wondering where I might find a meaningful spot to sprinkle them.

And maybe plant a tree.

I know.

But.

I love you so very, very much, despite all of this.

I love you from your crooked, receeding hairlines to your Adam’s apple to your strong shoulders to your tiny little love handles to your long, hairy legs that seem to tan almost , all the way down to your weird feet — feet that you are self-conscious about for no good reason.

I love the veins on your forearms and the size of your hands. I love your stubble at six o’clock, not five, because it just seems more committed. I love that you look like your dad but have the good nose from your mom’s side. I love that you floss obsessively and that your gums show that you care.

I love you from the depths of your trivia memory and conviction about which kind of takeout is best, to the heights of your passion for obscure CDs and in-jokes and gadgets and women who may or may not be me.

I love you for the way your family has shaped you and messed you up.

I love you for the way women have shaped you and messed you up.

I love you for the odd but perfect things that make you emotional and the way my emotions leave you blank sometimes.

I love you for making fun of me when it was the right thing to do, and for your shock when it wasn’t and I smacked you in the forehead.

I love you for walking away when that’s what I deserved.

I love you for coming back because that’s what we both deserved.

I even love you for staying away forever because that’s what was needed.

I love you because that is how I am wired and the panel is inaccessible to wire cutters. Or sledgehammers. Or wrecking balls.

I am stuck with this, with you.

So, Happy Valentine’s Day tomorrow, you ridiculous creatures. I don’t have a particular one of you to stuff with chocolate and marinate steaks for and implant with telepathic messages of “No carnations! No carnations!” straight to the center of your brain.

But all y’all are lovely. Stand up straight and own it.

Yours always,

Meg