When we first started dating, I told you that I was a plain and simple girl. A wallflower. You fell in love with that.
Then I told you that I wanted to be a writer. A painter. Later, a photographer. More specifically, a wedding photographer. Recently, a fashion designer. You fell in love with all of those things. You encouraged me when others scoffed at me- the stupid girl with the big fancy dreams, dreams I can't eat or drink, dreams I can't even hold still and master. They said that I was a jack of all trades and master of none. But you bought me sewing books. You paid for the needles and the thread rolls and the bulk of cloths I never touched. You got your father to teach me how to use the antique sewing machine. I fiddled with it just once and never again. Your father brought it back inside his room and kept it for good.
Then I told you that I didn't know who I was. Even now, I don't quite know, who or what I am. I say one thing but I do another. I constantly change my mind. I never remember the decisions I make. I am always breaking my promises. I make so many mistakes, day after day after day. Sometimes I feel so empty and worthless and confused- how do I connect this strange head to this foreign heart? How do I move this body forward when it is paralyzed by waves of fear and shot down by uncertainty?
But you know just what to do in your sensible and practical way. You make it all okay. When I am depressed, you ask me if I want ice cream. Or chocolate. Or both. When I am upset and I clam up, you speak to others on my behalf. You never ask me questions I don't want to answer. You know that I will speak when I am ready to. When I am angry, you hold my hand and quietly lead me to one of our favourite restaurants and allow me to rant it all out. When I am done, you raise your hand and beckon the waiter over and order all my favourite dishes.
More than anything, you make possible a life of absolute ordinariness that I have always ached for. You show me how to put one leg in front of the other and move forward.