Fairy Tales and Muggles
On paper, Brian was just right: very intelligent, not bad to look at, and an astoundingly successful career for someone his age. I hesitated at first because he is a few years younger, but everything else seemed to override the age difference. We’re both liberal Democrats, and we agreed on almost everything, with a little variance on the issue of guns. Before our first date, we spent hours every day texting and talking on the phone about everything or nothing and anything in between. He drove over an hour to get to the date, and it lasted eight hours. Though not the best, he was a pretty passable kisser.
At one point that night, while we sat in the car talking for hours, I asked him which Hogwarts house he’d be in. He laughed and said he’d never seen or read the Harry Potter series because “it’s a story for children.” I’ve heard this before, and have converted a few people into fans of the tale of The Boy Who Lived, so I wasn’t too terribly disheartened. The date ended around 2 a.m. and I didn’t even regret it when I woke at 4:30 for work the next day.
Things were going well, and a few weeks later, we had another date, this time, I drove north and we hung out all day, all night, and into the morning. As we sat in the pub near his place, I mentioned that I wanted to see the new Cinderella movie and he laughed. He asked how old I am, and gave me a hard time about wanting to see a fairy tale. I don’t care how old I get, Cinderella is my favorite fairy tale and Kenneth Branagh could direct a kindergarten play and make it look masterful.
I’d had a good time on the date, but as I drove home, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right, that there was something missing. After about a month of conversation and a few dates, the initial chemistry had already morphed into something else. Since I’m generally moronic when it comes to emotions, it took me a while to figure it out:
He’s a Muggle. Non-magic folk, as Hagrid would say. Not a bad person or anything, but he doesn’t believe in magic, in that mystery and whimsy that intangibly moves in and between people.
And that doesn’t work for me.
Once upon a time, I would have settled for a Muggle who, on paper and initially seemed to be such a good match. It may not be what I had dreamed of, but I didn’t have much hope of ever finding what I wanted either.
“How old are you?” He laughed.
I am old enough to not rush into anything, but far too young to give up on the life I dream of. I’m old enough to know that fairy tales are the truest form of every story. I’m old enough to know that I have to be my own fairy godmother, too old to chase down just anything like the stepsisters, but too young to become bitter, like the stepmother.
I believe in magic. Passion. Chemistry. Slow Blake Shelton songs and bombastic P!nk anthems. Dancing. In the person who makes you smile without realizing that you’re grinning like a fool. I believe in the person who knows just how and when to kiss you. I believe in the person who drives you so crazy you could shake them but who, simultaneously, you can’t do without. The person you keep coming back to, like a boomerang. The feeling you get when the right hands run through your hair or touch your cheek. I believe in kisses that feel like coming home.
I don’t believe in perfect. I don’t believe in instant. But I believe in magic, and I’m not going to settle for less.