So I haven’t read any books, friends. I’ve been making my way through Juliet Gael’s Romancing Miss Bronte for, oh, two weeks and can barely get my little eyes to focus on the little words.
Because reading? That would require me to quiet the “SPENCER! SPENCER! SPENCER!” chorus in my brain. And considering there’s a full-scale Spencer Marching Band playing at full volume up there, it’s been completely impossible for me to get a thought in edgewise.
I’ve become that really annoying girl in a new relationship who sees rainbows, puppies and cotton candy everywhere she looks — and can’t stop smiling and generally acting like a crazy person. I haven’t had time to create my all-new, super-sappy love playlist yet (but it’s coming, Rebecca!) but you can bet that once I do, I’ll have that puppy on repeat. My favorite tune of the moment is Colbie Caillat’s “Magic,” and just because I’m in this sort of a mood, here are some select lyrics for you, my fine friends:
All I see is your face
All I feel is your touch
Wake me up with your kiss
Come at me from up above
I typed those lyrics by hand — while listening to the song for the five millionth time this morning. I didn’t even want to look them up; I just wanted to listen to the song over and over and then type them.
I’m losing my mind. Because I just want to look at him. All. The. Time.
Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever looked at anyone so much in my life. I’ve memorized his facial features and live in breathless anticipation of when he’ll offer me one of his slow smiles. I love talking to him and holding him and laughing with him and walking with him and being with him. I don’t care what we do or where we go, as long as I can hold his hand. As long as he smiles at me. As long as we’re together.
This is dangerous.
I know it’s crazy and ridiculous and I feel like I’m losing my mind, but I’m staring into a deep and sparkly well and want to just fall straight in without thinking. Without hesitation. Without fear. All those little parts of my brain that usually yell, “Meg, don’t fall too quickly. Don’t let him know how much you care. Don’t let him hurt you,” have packed up their dark, pessimistic little suitcases and gone on vacation. Hopefully forever.
I’m not even superstitious, afraid to talk about it, because I trust it. I trust him — I trust him with my heart.
Last night we spent hours making macaroons — literally, hours — and I felt like I’d blinked only to realize we were pulling trays of them from the oven. Carefully sliding them from the parchment paper, Spencer piled them high on a plate before we began crafting the little cookie sandwiches. I don’t think I did much but stand there and look like a lovesick lunatic, reaching out to kiss him any time he glanced in my direction. If I could have stood in that kitchen forever, looking into his eyes and waiting for those cookies to bake, I probably would have. I was barefoot. He was smiling as I held on to him, my cheek against his cool neck.
It was perfect.
I’m scared and happy and so excited that I don’t know what to do with myself. I’ve barely eaten this week.
I didn’t think it would be this easy.
Color me surprised . . . and thrilled — thrilled! — for the rest of my life.