True Love makes you wait…

“And they got married, she wore Vera Wang, he got a Frank Fowden hairdo, and they sailed off into the sunset and lived happily ever after”…

 What mums don’t tell their daughters is that he needed Viagra for his wedding night, she had a small course of liposuction (lunchtime, mind you) months beforehand in order to fit into the goddamn dress, and that Ken & Barbie’s honeymoon cost enough to put them in approximately 247 months worth of debt.

Everything fairy tales ever told me was WRONG. Outrageously, illegally, outlandishly wrong. Wrong is actually the baby diminutive word of the Big, Adult, Cow-Pooh Size Wrong that it *actually* is. Terminally Erroneous, maybe.

Soulmates are completely entirely exclusive of marriage; nowadays we’re all comfortable with the fact that the two don’t necessarily go hand in hand, so to speak.

What are “soulmates”, then?

Jesus Christ, don’t look at me, damned if I know.

But I think I’m closer to knowing. Knowing what it isn’t, more accurately. It’s not some heroic deed that martyrs champion for the whole world to watch and judge, muttering critique from the sidelines whilst watching Ken and Barbie fight it out like Gladiators. I used to think that True Love is an Inordinately Massive Huge Big Deal that, if you got wrong, was doomed to an afterlife in limbo. Not so much. Now I know, even if you have screamed your “True Love” (note: inverted commas) from the rooftops, and then fallen face first, that it’s alright. Nobody really noticed any way. Probably.

You can fall retardedly in love, be sickeningly lovestruck puppies, stuff it all up, break up, mess up and walk away and still love each other. It might take months, years, an eon. You could like each other and see each other every now and again for tea and scones. Then, hmm, you could love each other and rush them to hospital if necessary, stroke their ego’s when they’re hurt, give advice, crack each other up, find them jobs, find them dates, and pash their faces off in dire emergencies.

So, what is that then? It’s not just “liking” someone. Is it caring for someone? I care for my postman and I certainly don’t clean up his sick at 2am when he’s had food poisoning. Maybe this is that elusive “unconditional love” that those country and western singers croon about.  Maybe *this* is all we really need. Someone who has your back, no matter what. It might not be marriage. It might not be the picket fence and meat and two veg on the table. It might be weird, bizarre and difficult to explain. But it works.

Those soulmates, slippery suckers…

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