all the music of life seems to be like a bell that is ringing for me.
what a day this has been, what a rare mood i'm in.
why, it's almost like being in love.
there's a smile on my face for the whole human race.
why, it's almost like being in love.
Next Tuesday it will be two months with this boy, and I have yet to figure out how to describe him. He is Russian, by birth, but Iowan, by accent. He works at a non-profit where I interned, as a program associate for an economics department. He is quiet and serious at first (you know how intimidating Russians can be, with their high cheekbones), but with me he is ridiculous and silly. He is also incredibly intelligent, well-read, witty, and kind.
I am, I'll confess, totally smitten. More than that, I am happy. I wake up in the morning and stretch with a smile on my face, imagining that he is laying next to me. I hum through my work, without the old stress strangling my nerves. Throughout the day he keeps me entertained with stories from The New Yorker or some latest ESPN podcast in my inbox, and we share book recommendations and weekend ideas. We grocery shop together and make whatever Martha Stewart recipe over which I am currently pining. (Last night, ginger chicken with brown rice; next time, Moroccan stew with sweet potatoes.) Whatever we cook, it will take twice as long as Martha suggests because he will slip his arms around my waist while I am at the stove and kiss my neck and I will be done for, thank goodness. He will murmur, "You're so great. I love you." And I will smile and decide it is not quite the right time to say it back to him, yet. And eventually I will shoo him out the door with many happily-bestowed goodnight kisses.
We go to museums; we take sunlit walks along the monuments; we watch football games at an enormous sports pub; we frequent a cozy, cute little neighborhood bar on Thursday nights; we once put together a Thanksgiving for my brother and his girlfriend entirely from scratch; we stay in and watch mockumentaries when we're tired; we grocery shop some more - a lot, so much Whole Foods must think we're married; we catch indie movies downtown on Fridays; we hold hands; we tease each other; we build each other up; and we smile.
He makes me feel sweet & kind & loving & loved. And best of all, he says, "You make me want to be a better person." And I think that is what it means to be a truly good woman: to inspire the best in a man. And if that, in fact, is love, then maybe I'm in it.
& from the way that i feel
when that bell starts to peal,
i would swear i was falling. . .
i would swear i was falling. . .
why, it's almost like being in love.
why, it's almost like being in love.
there's a smile on my face for the whole human race.
why, it's almost like being in love.
Next Tuesday it will be two months with this boy, and I have yet to figure out how to describe him. He is Russian, by birth, but Iowan, by accent. He works at a non-profit where I interned, as a program associate for an economics department. He is quiet and serious at first (you know how intimidating Russians can be, with their high cheekbones), but with me he is ridiculous and silly. He is also incredibly intelligent, well-read, witty, and kind.
I am, I'll confess, totally smitten. More than that, I am happy. I wake up in the morning and stretch with a smile on my face, imagining that he is laying next to me. I hum through my work, without the old stress strangling my nerves. Throughout the day he keeps me entertained with stories from The New Yorker or some latest ESPN podcast in my inbox, and we share book recommendations and weekend ideas. We grocery shop together and make whatever Martha Stewart recipe over which I am currently pining. (Last night, ginger chicken with brown rice; next time, Moroccan stew with sweet potatoes.) Whatever we cook, it will take twice as long as Martha suggests because he will slip his arms around my waist while I am at the stove and kiss my neck and I will be done for, thank goodness. He will murmur, "You're so great. I love you." And I will smile and decide it is not quite the right time to say it back to him, yet. And eventually I will shoo him out the door with many happily-bestowed goodnight kisses.
We go to museums; we take sunlit walks along the monuments; we watch football games at an enormous sports pub; we frequent a cozy, cute little neighborhood bar on Thursday nights; we once put together a Thanksgiving for my brother and his girlfriend entirely from scratch; we stay in and watch mockumentaries when we're tired; we grocery shop some more - a lot, so much Whole Foods must think we're married; we catch indie movies downtown on Fridays; we hold hands; we tease each other; we build each other up; and we smile.
He makes me feel sweet & kind & loving & loved. And best of all, he says, "You make me want to be a better person." And I think that is what it means to be a truly good woman: to inspire the best in a man. And if that, in fact, is love, then maybe I'm in it.
& from the way that i feel
when that bell starts to peal,
i would swear i was falling. . .
i would swear i was falling. . .
why, it's almost like being in love.