The Girl I Tell My Secrets To

"Just write about whatever your heart desires"  That was the creative writing assignment that lead to my short, brilliant career as a poet.  During that time I wrote about 20 individual pieces of poetry, four of which were published by my school's creative writing publication.  That's 20%, which ain't bad folks.  Mr Meyers, my teacher for creative writing, was asking me to engage upon a flight of fancy, a not necessarily practical idea.  But, while my soul may have been that of a poet, my mind was still that of an engineer...and so I wrote about what my heart truely did desire.

I wrote about finding my place, in the entrophy of the world.  Significance, meaning, and the lack of any, were always common themes.  The bigness of the world I lived in effected me more then than now, now that my apathy has grown as big.  It seemed that my writing really appealed to the angst ridden teens reviewing our school's creative writing, or perhaps it just sounded a lot like the Pearl Jam CDs they were listening too while they worked, and I received a lot of accolades for my writing.  My most overlooked work though, was a short poem titled "The Girl I Tell My Secrets To."

In that poem, I described a fictional girl.  Someone that was as unsure about the bigness of the world as I was.  Someone that struggled the same ways I did.  Someone that understood me.  Someone, I expected I would never meet.

Not so long ago, I was telling my best friend "I don't think it's possible to find someone that can be your mate, understand you completely, and be your best friend."  My reasoning was simple.  It was too much to ask of any single person, and my experience with women indicated exactly that.  I had given up on it all.  I had hardened myself to the hopelessness, and removed the possibility, resigning myself to being alone, or at least something like that.  Giving up. 

But then, when things were at their darkest, there she was, smiling at me from under an airplane, the girl I tell my secrets to...  The most beautiful woman that has ever graced a pair of gray sketchers introduced herself to me, and there was no question my life would never be the same.  I remember the first time I met her face to face, she was standing in front of a wall, and written behind her was a favorite quote from Keroauc, "the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars."  I'm nothing if not dense, but the writing was quite literally on the wall, and there was no question in my mind that my world was different.

We're beyond compatable.  Inevitably when we go out to eat at a restaurant, I always wish I ordered what she did.  Neither one of us can pick up after ourselves.  We're both triathletes, pretty good cyclists, and pretty average runners. Neither of us like tomatoes, but we both like tomato sauce.  But, more important than tomatoes or watts, for the first time ever I can be me with her.  I can let my guard down, I can show weakness, I can need help, and I can celebrate victories with her. 

My life, as Billy Corgan wrote,  "has been been extraordinary, blessed and cursed and won."  I never, in that blessed, cursed, and won mess,  expected to find her.   In fact I didn't think it was possible that a person like this could even exist.  But she does...  The Girl I Tell My Secrets To.  Somehow I met her, and I married her.  I count myself beyond fortunate for that.