This morning I dragged myself out of warm flannel sheets to meet Holly at the gym for a 1 hour ass kicking/sculpting workout. Holly is a sweet 22 year old, tiny, blond and I love her. She pushes me hard, and we giggle alot. She is simple, sweet, and in love.
This morning Holly told me that she recently eloped with her boyfriend of 8 months. He is in the Air Force and being sent to San Antonio for boot camp, basic training, and all that jazz. When she tells me this I am elated, I feel my heart burst open and suddenly in the middle of my leg press I have tears running down my face. I love that this still happens in the world, that love can move us take great leaps of faith, and who gives a damn about a net? She goes on to tell the story of how he gave her the ring in a hot air balloon, and how they both cried. Awwwww. I have now done way more than my second set of 20 leg presses, but I don’t want her to stop, so I just keep going.
Finally we move to the racquet ball courts for some lunges and squats as she describes San Antonio as being a “romantic city” with a river walk and gondola rides. Her voice is echoing and the fluorescent lites are blinding in here, but today I am not going to complain. I am absorbing this sweet foolishness, she has hearts in her eyes and not a thought of “what if?” I used to be this way.
I remember being in love in my early twenties, not even considering the possibility of Brent not being “the one”, I had no concept of the complexities that would come into our almost 9 year romance. How we would be torn apart by life and simply growing up and apart into the people we were becoming. We both just dove right in, heart first. I see myself in Holly, I love her. I don’t tell her my story, I don’t warn her. It doesn’t cross my mind. After we finish our workout, I hobble up some stairs to dance on the elliptical for 30 minutes, my heart still happy and aflutter. It is then that I know, Holly is my idol.