I recently saw a post on one of my dear friend’s twitter-feeds talking about how he could see himself as a Ted Mosby type guy. It’s a comparison that’s occasionally been made similarly about me, especially others who have seen my hopeless romantic side.
And until this morning, I always thought I wanted that. Not to be him of course, but to find love like him: to have a girl I was destined to meet and fall in love with and to one day know the stars had nearly aligned so many times until ultimately they ran out of ways to keep from aligning perfectly, causing said girl-of-my-dreams and I to finally meet, fall in love at first sight, and know that we were right where we were supposed to be.
I also thought maybe it’d be like Ted and Robyn were, where they found love in each other so many times only to keep screwing it up until they finally gave up from angst, until they realized they hadn’t.
All of this I’ve long thought I wanted.
But as I walk around my apartment this morning with the fresh realization that coffee somehow calms me down and makes me sleepy, a fact likely to confuse my friends to no end, I have a realization that I no longer care how love comes.
I don’t dream of finding a Ted Mosby kind of love. I’m just excited to dream about what it’ll be like to find it again at all.
God knows I’ve failed enough times at this whole love thing. I’m terrible at going from friendship to boyfriendhood and I’m as awkward as they come every step along the way. God also knows I should fear love, and that in many ways I appear to fear people even though I actually don’t, except when I do. Still, somehow I want to believe in it. I want to write about it. I want to daydream about it. I want to imagine a girl one day getting as excited about random texts from me, and I want to one day make a girl happy instead of making her feel awkward when I tell her I love getting even the smallest, simplest of texts from her.
I can’t wait to find that, and somehow I’m too naive, too stubborn, and perhaps too pretentious to believe such a thing doesn’t somehow exist, even for someone like me.
I dream of it: the subtle, unexpected kind of love that doesn’t make its clichè, “love at first sight” appearance, but instead starts small and builds slowly, artistically, subtly. Not like the love novel, but like the waves.
Who knows. Maybe I am destined for that Ted Mosby type love. Maybe there’s no other option for someone as “cheesy,” frequently “over-affectionate,” and prone to overthinking as I’ve historically been.
Or, maybe, just maybe, I’m starting to grow out of that last little bit.
Maybe now I’m finally learning to avoid overthinking, and thus maybe I’m ready for something a little more unexpected. Something exciting by not seeming to exciting. Something that doesn’t need Taylor Swift love songs or William Shakespeare poetry to describe it, because it instead is best described with a simple, U-shaped curve of the lips.
I’ll keep y’all posted.