Forget every romance novel you have ever read. In fact, ban them all from your house because a romance novelist is an unforgivable liar worthy of house arrest. Love isn't running over the moors, ripping your clothes off with every footfall and throwing yourself into the sand to make sweet, passionate love all night. Nor, ladies, does he have a "purple-headed warrior with an ability that knows no end". And, sorry guys, after 40 and three kids her "heaving bosom" starts heading south to vacation with her navel.
What is real love? It is her waking to the sound of his thundering farts and loving him anyway. It is his allowing her to emotionally glurge all over the apartment, and him, when she's upset. It is the two of them working through massive issues with the least amount of emotional bloodshed; yet, it also lies in their ability to have the biggest fight of either of their lives, but still (somehow) not let it get personally ugly. Love is parents' who sacrifice everything - their sleep, desires, peace of mind, every cent that they make and every cell in their body, all devoted to raising their child.
Love is messy, dirty, and often downright ugly. The person you love the most, if only for the briefest of moments, is often the one you most wish to kill. Lust, laughter, anger, sadness...there is no one in our lives that can affect us in quite the same way as our lovers.
Personally, I'll take the real thing over the fantasy any day.
~Jenn
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