Need Not Love Weird, Just Me

my Piano Man (showing the photo of a bottle): “Do you approve?”

me (squealing like a delighted maniac): “I want that bottle!”

my Piano Man: “Dead Guy Ale.”

me (half-choking on exclamation marks): “I want it!!!”

A few hours later, my Piano Man came home with two empty bottles of Dead Guy Ale for me to moon over. One of said bottles now resides next to my typewriter. I can glance at it while I’m writing. Every time I look at the skeleton, I grin… remembering the silly exchange that made it mine, basking in the bliss of having a love who knows exactly how to love me.

My sweet Piano Man is not a lover of creepy things (aside from me, that is). But our home is full of what many would probably think of as rather weird—bones, thorns, ashes that used to be alive, enough skulls to make you wonder if “skull fetish” shouldn’t be a thing, hammers, axes, random sticks… and my Piano Man never makes them feel unwelcome.

Some time ago, while I assisted in a Coming of Age dance ritual, the crone leading it (waves at Yudelis), said, “May your weird find a weird to love and be loved by”. I remember thinking, That’s freaking brilliant.

Years later, after I have lived and love and loved and loved… I believe in those wise words more than ever: the success of a relationship doesn’t depend on how similar or different those involved are from each other, but on how well they can love one another while remaining who they are (or, perhaps, while growing together into what they want to be).

he honors my heart
with treasures stripped of all meat,
thoughts of weird be damned