Saturday, April 30, 2011

Happily (Or, The One In Which I Become a Hopeless Romantic)

I got up at 3:45 in the morning yesterday to watch two strangers get married. Well, strangers to me. They weren't strangers to each other. At least I hope, after 8 years together, they would feel they know one another pretty well. But that's beside the point.

When my alarm went off, I was out of bed quickly. Of course, I set myself up for success – my slippers by the bed, coffee ready to brew without additional help, a bathrobe within reach, and the TV already set to the right channel, so within five minutes I could be on the couch with a hot cup of coffee and the coverage on the TV.

I was riveted through the entire wedding. The look on her face when she walked down the aisle, the way her hand shook in her father's as she paraded through 2,000 people. Her measured smile as she reached her fiance at the end of that harrowing stroll. Everything was gut-wrenchingly perfect. It felt restrained, like reading a Bronte novel. My heart was in my throat for this couple, who had no choice but to put this strangely solemn yet happy moment on international display.

The fervor of my interest surprised even me. It's unlike me to get up quite that early for anything but exercise or traveling, but I was happy to do it. Does that mean I'm a romantic? I certainly hope it does. I hope it means that my entire life I'll be searching out passion, watching fairytales unfold before my eyes, and always believing that they will turn into happy endings, despite the world's woes.

Today I'm asleep on my feet. But yesterday, I was in love with the world all day, and I sent every positive thought I could spare toward this new couple. Because if their fairytale truly is a fairytale, I think even the most cynical among us might be able to believe in the possibility of our own happily ever afters.

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