Ode to David (this is a little mushy for my taste--you've been warned)

Last V-day David checked the blog frequently in hopes of finding an “Ode to David.” Perhaps I can semi-make up for that failing now, on the eve of his birthday.

Let’s begin as usual, reminiscing.
The first birthday present I can remember giving him, and quite possibly the last (we’ve discussed my gift-giving talents), was for his sweet sixteen (the day his girlfriend flew out of the truck he was driving across the Huey P Long Bridge and the day he got in a fight with a pack of no-gooders…stories for another time). It was a second-hand piggy bank in the form of a punk rocker, the mohawk was a feather and the nose was chipped and then painted over with my blue toe-nail polish. The piece still stands somewhere as a tribute to our young love, ahem, awkwardness which later turned into older love.
And so goes an awkward rambling of my love:
I don't like writing about love because then you have to pick and choose. That’s why there are thousands, maybe millions of stories and poems on love—there are so many angles and manifestations that the description, poem, story is eternally doomed to be inadequate. Romantic love usually starts out with hormonal, giddy sleeplessness and then we really have to learn what love is after cupid withers and we find out that men drink all our milk and use enough Clorox wipes to put us in the poor house (happenstance examples, of course). Love, in all facets is hard work and that’s why it’s wonderful b/c it’s a process of accomplishment. And you learn that you can’t pick and choose things you love about someone since the good and the bad is all rolled up into one, no editing allowed (which takes at least a decade to learn, then re-learn). The strong characteristics bleed into everything: decision-making, relationships, intelligence, career.  And if anything, David is a strong character. David, you always know exactly what you want, you know exactly how you will get it, and then you move forward. I realize this is not a very romantic thing to be in love with like rippling pecs, poetic soliloquies, or dimpled toes. But what better characteristic is there to have than striving to become better, not to the point of excessive humility or pride nor defeatism or gloating, but just the right balance to impulse and steer. And that’s who I married. A working visionary. The dimpled toe and rippling pecs are a bonus.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life;
and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

Happy birthday.