Mad Love at Fiftysomething

A love note for my man Dan.

Thirty-four years ago, we were horny college students who ended up napping on the same pull-out couch where, clad in high school sweatpants, our butts accidentally touched and that is the reason there are now four people in the world named Lythcott-Haims.

Back then, love was lust, laughter, longing, lips grasping for more taste of the others' insides. Skin was smooth, taut, full of ripe life, a container for bursting-forth energy, a vehicle of becoming. To wake was to roll over, nuzzle the other awake and start anew. There was no dragon breath in those years, no crusted eyes, no funk, just the sweet scent of youth finding youth in the morning.

_____

Hello, love.

These thirty-four years later, your eyes still smize at mine even though now when we're in bed we have to lean back a ways so as to bring each other into focus. I know you. I know every dot and ripple and all those hairs on your chest covering a skin that was once as smooth as an eggshell. We are not worse for the wear. The wear has made clear: We are a we. Every day is another chance to grasp the utter improbability that in all these years of growing up we managed to grow together.

If there was a manual for intimacy, I would want it to say: 1) It's not a destination it's an intention; 2) It must be reciprocal and mutual; and 3) If you have any questions, call Dan.

But perhaps the greatest gift you've given me is the reassurance that I am never too much. From the start, you'd let this wild thing whinny and stomp and snort, and then you'd lasso my energy with a look in your eyes that said I'm not going anywhere, which over time allowed me to tame myself so that, even now when I'm prancing about with fear, I need no longer rear up my anger to save me. Like that time in 1989 when we were living in our first apartment and we had a huge fight and I took the chicken parmesan I'd just spent an hour making and threw it down the garbage disposal and you walked out and then you came back home.

Ten years ago you said, "Don't be so beautiful I can't get out of bed." Yesterday when I said, "We're old," you said, "I like old things." I feel that to be with an artist is to be intentionally selected and continually chosen.

We never believed in Valentines Day. It seemed like a generic-brand version of what we wanted to experience and convey. But for the sake of convention I will say today that I cherish you.

_____

Dear reader, are you madly in love with someone after all these years, or perhaps anew? Do they know why you've chosen them and they you? What does your love sound like? You can tell me, or better yet, tell them 😘

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🤎 His name is Dan Lythcott-Haims and you can learn more about him here.

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📸 Cover Photo by Me/Love Over Time sign created by Dan Lythcott-Haims