He’s got it bad. Really bad. The other night he looks at me tenderly, his eyes all gooey with love and he tells me, “Yeah, you were asleep in my arms and you were snoring. You sounded sooo sweet!” I can’t help but feel sorry for him; after all, a guy who thinks that snoring is sweet? What else will he find endearing? 

I’m lucky—I’ve waited more than half my life to meet him and here he is: In my life, in my face, in my home. I’ve had to clear out the left side of the walk-in closet; that wasn’t too bad, when I finally remember to make room for him. This is all new for me. After searching ten years for “the one,” finding him has been almost surreal, as if we are both in a dream. Isn’t that his photo on my laptop? Well then, he must be real, my ego tells me—it’s living proof. 

Yet it surely doesn’t feel real. Since our second date, he’s been camping out in my bed, in my house. Did someone invite him to do that? Did I? I am floating as if in a dream; I am feeling dreamlike. This is a dream. And this guy is my dreamboat. 

Every morning, we both awaken early, around three-thirty; do I turn over and say goodnight, do I smile and close my eyes shut, again, to sleep it off? No, I stay awake. And he says something and I lose it; a couple drops of pee in the bed because he makes me laugh so hard. Damn him, anyway. Because of him I work hard at staying awake for my clients, when all I want to do is to take a heavenly quiet nap. In fact, sometimes I do, while my client is off sawing her own logs.  This being in love business is something else. 

I hold on to my tongue when he brings me chocolate; it is milk with almonds embedded in it. Doesn’t he realize that dark is the only acceptable kind I will eat and that really, if he intends on bringing me flower bouquets, the glass vase has to go? Only the most colorful flowers will do—and I don’t need a store bought vase to cheapen the look. I mean, really. Didn’t he fall in love with me because I’m uniquely flamboyant and flaunt my own style and thinking? Of course he did. He isn’t dumb. In fact, he’s more spiritually aware than I am, remembers to walk his talk more than I do. He’s not the one sounding like a truck driver in rush-hour traffic. 

Maybe he finds that attractive in me, sees that as sexy. A grown girly, acting more like a teen, exuberant energy; soaring through the clouds with my playful, childlike imagination. He’s the same way and he understands this, unlike most men who act like laughing and poking fun at yourself constitutes being arrested. Or running in the rain, naked, or eating food with your fingers…or dancing in the grocery store. In fact he once instigated it in Whole Foods, suddenly grabbing me from behind and tonguing me in the dairy aisle, oblivious to the sauntering cop. I love that stuff, I live for that kind of stuff; as a rebellious girly, I thrive on that kind of thing. How did I get to be so lucky, how did I get exactly what I want? 

It isn’t enough that we both love to dance, both love music—wouldn’t want to live without it; we both have newly grown daughters that resemble one another; both practice spirituality, love to read about it in bed; both get into cooking and eating healthy foods; both practice yoga and using our bodies in exercise and lovemaking as often as possible; both putting our relationship over everything else; believe in drinking lots of water, every day and feel orgasmic in hot water, whether it’s a hot springs, bathtub or the ocean; we both ache for travel adventures; want to create work/play for ourselves that generously means service to others…all that wasn’t enough, I had to manifest more: synchronicities and deep connections that continue to blow us both away. What did I start, here, anyway?And can I continue it, with grace?

He says I manifested him into my life—says that I’m responsible for calling him to myself. How exactly did I do that? Was it the endless hours of praying, of wishing, of hoping? All I did was reply to his profile on okcupid.com. It was easy. And here he makes it sound so mysterious, so magical. Just answered his ad, as simple as that.

And just because he keeps me waiting for several days until he answers, it doesn’t mean that he is any less intrigued; in fact, he is bowled over by me. I’ve mesmerized him from the beginning. And now I can’t shake him (I admit it—I love all the attention and the whoopla and the humor). I can even stand all the silly texting, every single day, the constant communication. Isn’t that exactly what I asked for, a communicative man? Well, here he is. Weep no more. Celebrate. Dance. Light up. He’s the best thing that happened to me in ages.

There he is, his picture on my laptop. God, he’s sexy. It’s time to be grateful. And god knows that I am. Man am I grateful. After all, he’s not only my sweetheart, my lover and my boyfriend; for goddess sakes, he’s my very best friend in the world—and we plan to marry.