Two nights ago, during a FOUR HOUR phone conversation, half-seriously, said that not only could I write a somewhat impartial description of the lovely Miss Christine (whom, it seems, would be delighted if I referred to her merely as "Chris"), but that such a description would take several pages.

After a brief tangent on the virtues of modern word-processing software in college (where you can "double-space" a paper, setting the linespacing to 2.1 or even 2.2, thus saving perhaps half a page of writing over the course of a whole college-size term paper), I started to reflect on this challenge I set out for myself.

I'm no longer completely certain I can meet the four-page goal I set for myself in a half-sleepy state of euphoria. And I am quite certain I cannot be impartial...

To be sure, Chris (and to avoid blatant "padding" I'll use the short version, at least for a little while) could be written about for a good while, but after a page or two, the whole thing would degenerate into nothing but flattery. This wouldn't bother her, but I'd end up repeating myself after the second page or so, which would bother me.

I could write about how she is much prettier than she thinks she is (or, for that matter, I could just put up a picture, but for some reason I've been asked not to do so)... or how the mere sight of her, or the sound of her voice, captures my attention and refuses to let go, in some giddy hypnotic way.

I could write about how she makes me laugh...
I could write about how she makes me smile...
I could write about how she makes me cry...
I could write about her omniscient gift for knowing which of those I need...

I could write, and in fact have written, about the spark when her hand touches mine, and I feel myself flowing into her, as she does to me, and how for those very brief moments I can draw upon her very soul, and I feel I am a better person, somehow, than I really am, because she is there.

I could write about how I look up to her in so many ways: of how her life seems to be under her control, instead of the madly chaotic whims of the world around her; of how she knows what she wants out of life, and how best to go about taking it; of how she seems more sure of herself than I might ever be; of her seemingly infinite capacity for love and compassion, or of how grateful I am to receive even a small portion thereof. In a way, looking at her is looking at myself as I would like to be.

I could even write about how, in defiance of all sanity and logic, things just feel right. During that long (but all too brief) conversation, we were half-seriously planning a wedding. (Things got a little twisty when we tried to decide WHERE to go. I'm holding out for the Jewel Box.)

Or, in the interest of impartiality, I could even try to write about her real and perceived flaws: she doesn't seem to realize just how beautiful she truly is; she thinks she needs to lose weight (don't we all?); she has nearly as many apparent self-esteem issues as I do (and fewer reasons for them); she's scared of the concept of "us" (well, so am I, sometimes).

I could go on, but my eyes are getting a little itchy from those rose-tinted contact lenses.

I do see these things, and perhaps others, but I just don't care.

Turned about, that is perhaps the most beautiful thing about her -- she sees everything that's wrong with me too, and she ignores it. She sees me with all my flaws and all my (proverbial) lumps and she still loves me.

And for that alone -- dramatic pause so I can get the next important bit on its own paragraph --

Chris, I love you.