I am a genius. I can say this only because I'm with you.
I keep getting these random dudes coming up to me on the street saying "Bro, you're so lucky! How did you get together with that babe?" I scoff at their ignorance. It's my supreme intelligence that orchestrated the greatest coupling coup in the history of match-making that toppled the dictatorship-like hold over your heart held by some fascist celebrity with zero body hair, a penchant for appearing in Calvin Klein underwear ads, surfboard abs and a propensity for reciting French poetry while pouring you a glass of red wine as the fading rays of daylight scorch the celestial canvas with broad brush strokes of color combinations arcing across the entire visual spectrum. He was good, but I'm better.
I never tell anyone the truth, because even I don't believe it half the time. I was just going through life, doing my thing, quite happy and content... and then you were there. I passed the blush off as a wave of heat that had just washed over me, to which you inquired if I was going through menopause. Truth be told, I wasn't ready for you that first time we met. Two minutes ago the world was my oyster and now the only correlation between myself and seafood is the clammy sensation of nervousness in my hands at the realization: this girl is extraordinary. It felt like butterflies were playing parkour in my chest. I never did get a chance to interview key witnesses at the scene so the voracity of whether my jaw actually did "drop" is still in question, though at times you like to remind me of how you recall that specific turn of events. On that matter I defer to you, because truth be told I have extremely limited recollection of what transpired early that day. The experience is best described as driving through the wide open country side. The day is beautiful, the breeze is perfect, the air is crisp and clean and you can see for miles in all directions. Then out of nowhere a tiny tunnel appears directly in front of you, but before you can even think of anything else all your attention is choked down to this small cylindrical viewpoint populated by a beautiful, stunning, intelligent, formidably fashionable you.
Your inadvertent shock and awe campaign on my brain cells and heart strings achieved a greater level of success than Joan of Arc could have ever hoped to dream. The cosmos shifted to a Her-centric rotation and there was nothing I could do about it. God had mercy and smiled upon me as He divinely intervened by smacking me upside the head to break my stunned silence and prod me onward. It worked. We talked, we laughed, we raided a tourist shop for disposable cameras and I LUV NYC t-shirts and hats just before tagging along with a United Nations group of sightseers (I slipped the guide some Lincoln love). We dined, we danced, we drank and we loudly berated the cabbie that drove off when he realized you weren't headed to JFK. We walked to your apartment and we kissed goodnight. "Call me" and your smile proved too much for my feeble mind, morphing me back into Mute Man. I just nodded dumbly as I stood there watching you for as long as possible. You shook your head at my goofball ways and mercilessly smiled again.
They'd never believe me, so I play the role of the pretentious jerk and let them think how they will, which they're going to do anyway. You aren't perfect, but you're perfectly you. We both enjoy dancing, live music, movies, weekend adventures and getaways, staying active and physically fit. You love that I open doors for you, hold your hand as we walk through the park and that I am unafraid to try new restaurants with you or dare to order off the menu. You roll your eyes at my purposefully dorky comments ("Camping is intense!") and fervently participate in our That's What He/She Said competitions. Your virtues and your vices are my joy because that's all that really matters: you.