There’s a beautiful moment when you very first fall in love. The object of your desire is suffused with the glow of perfection, angels descend clutching harps and singing songs to your beautiful new love, and all is right with the world.
But pretty soon reality catches up with you, and no matter how sweet your sweetheart you realise there are a few quirks of theirs that you just never expected.
It may be their unwavering use of anchovies as a desert topping, an unfortunate Chinese tattoo which isn’t as deep and meaningful as they hoped, or their tendency to scream the name “Jeremiah Entwhistle” when excited (particularly confusing during major sporting events)… But whatever it is, eventually it reveals itself.
And love comes in many forms. Whether it’s the love of your tax accountant’s encyclopedic knowledge of loopholes, your deep fondness for a good whisky, the love of a good woman, or adoration of your lovely new apartment.
All these things are well and good, as long as you remember that the accountant may land you with an IRS audit, the whisky may lead you to curse your very existence curled up in the bathroom at 3am, and the good woman will probably yell “Jeramiah Entwhistle!” at inopportune moments. And as for the apartment, well…
It was somewhat unfortunate that I moved in on the coldest week that San Francisco has seen all year. When I’d viewed the apartment it was the perfect temperature inside (and, indeed, it is right now because it’s a gorgeous day outside), but for the first week here… man, was it cold in the mornings.
There’s no central heating in the apartment, just a big (and to be fair, pretty efficient) gas-fired radiator in the lounge. It wasn’t enough to stop the bedroom getting cold, though (particularly as the apartment is tucked up in the roof of the house without much insulation.) So I bought a couple of electric heaters – both to distribute the heat, and save on gas bills.
Perfect. So I had one electric radiator going full-tilt in the lounge, and unpacked a second heater in the bedroom. I plugged it in, and everything was perfect – warming up nicely. I’d noticed that the lights flickered a bit when I switched them on, but didn’t pay much attention.
And then I heard the click-whirr of the fridge kicking in back in the kitchen… 2 seconds later, I was plunged into darkness.
Turns out that this place only has one electrical circuit on a single circuit breaker, and… well, the capacity isn’t that high.
Cue a week of carefully playing with heater settings in order to keep a delicate balance of warmth and light. I must have nipped outside to reset the breaker 5 or 6 times since I moved in…
…All of which could add up to being very annoying. Except, somehow it’s not. It’s even, dare I say it, fun – a battle between the cold, the weird electrics and my wits (yeah yeah, my wits definitely lose). And I’m so very, very happy with the place that I can entirely forgive its freaky electrics.
Which is, perhaps, the fundamental point about love – it’s not about perfection.
It’s about passion. It’s about that gut feeling of “yes”, even in the middle of a definite “no” moment. It’s about being plunged suprisingly into the dark (or hearing the scream of “Jeremiah Entwhistle!” again) and realising that no, this isn’t a quirk or a flaw – it’s just another part of the someone, something or somewhere that you adore.