Posted on May 23, 2010


I know what I want from a relationship. I think it’s pretty simple. I want to be with someone smart and kind who wants to be with me. I want to build a life together, with all the mundanity that entails: hanging pictures and trips to the grocery store and negotiating where to spend Christmas (a beach in Mexico, please.) I want passion, and inside jokes, and daydreams about a future devoted to puttering around and not working, or to traveling and not working, or to volunteering and not working, or to having sex all day and not working. In fact, I want to call off work sometimes and spend the day in bed.

I want a man I can make dinner for, who cares that I got the really good strawberries at the further-away farmers’ market. Or maybe he doesn’t care, but he knows he should kiss me for it anyway. I want him to lay his head in my lap while we watch TV on Sunday nights, or hold my hand while we are walking into the concert venue. I want to be able to fight without the crushing terror that every disagreement means the end.

I want to be able to be quiet together. I want someone who thinks my tendency to compulsively sing is endearing, or even hot. I want a man I can surprise with the perfect thing, whether it’s a back rub or a blowjob or beef stew. I want someone who will leave me alone when I’m in a bad mood, but not for too long. I want someone as complicated and game as I am, whose baggage matches mine. I don’t seek perfection, just a work in progress that everyone is committed to improving every day.

I want love. I want words of love, and acts of love, and a commitment to love. And I wish I didn’t, because I’m not sure I’m going to find it, and I’m not sure what I’ll do if I don’t.

Posted in: Dating, On Love