By Lana Moline
I love being married to an imperfect man. He’s not very talkative and sometimes falls asleep in the middle of good movie but, truth is, I absolutely adore him. His imperfection challenges me to look beyond the surface to find other solutions to life. I am more creative, quicker and extremely resourceful. I don’t know that I would have reached my level had it not been for his imperfection. I don’t know that I would be as strong had I not cried a few times and had him wipe the tears away. I can’t say that I would strive as diligently as I do to carve out the authentic me, the one who needs to make a positive impact in this world somehow. The imperfect man who loves the imperfect me is my dichotomy of love and the older I get the more I realize how important that love is and how much I crave it.
With love, just like life, I want all that is due. I want the multiplicity of love. I want the heart racing, anticipation of “when can I see you again?” When can I hold you again? When can I kiss you again? My heartbeats are dull when you are gone. My breaths are shallow and my outlook is somewhere between dreary and bleak. I figure if I were married to a perfect man, there would be nothing to aspire to, nothing to improve upon, little still to achieve. I am imperfect too and my imperfection needs balance and an equally flawed shoulder to cry on in this big, imperfect world and maybe together, somehow, we can define what perfection really means.
Lana Moline is a freelance writer and poet who lives in Fort Worth with her husband and three kids. She has been married 11 years and understands that marriage truly is a journey that is sometimes complicated by our own thoughts, perceptions and feelings. Visit her at her blog LanaSuccess4Kids.wordpress.com