Happiness and Wine

I was once compared to a bottle of wine; I came to realize that the kind of wine itself wasn't revealed, just the price of that wine.  A shameful comparison, mon frere; je suis une bouteille de champagne extrêmement rare.  I have been thinking of what it is that life is, and how strange and awful it can seem, and how wonderful and delicate, and so hard to hold onto in the end. 

Three days ago I came home to find a new statue of Ganesh upon my desk, on top of the copy of the Brother's Karamazov that my husband bought me, accompanied by a love letter written to remind me that Diwali was less than two months away.  My husband adores Diwali-- I was absolutely touched by this gesture.  Today he bought me a Brahma head to put on the mantle above our fireplace, which we filled with books yesterday (we needed the extra storage space).  He has given me a number of loving gifts; a record player, a kalimba, Santeria candles, postcards from the Musee Orsay in Paris, knitting needles from Provence, a phrenology head as a wedding gift.  In all the time that I have known him, he has never compared me to anything; he refuses to venerate me on a conceptual level, and loves me for all the things which make me human-- runny noses, headaches, bad moods, dreams that are totally flippant, irresponsible behavior.  I love him so much that, much like what Holly Golightly said she would do, I gave up smoking for him.

I have begun taking weaving classes, learning how to weave on these big, beautiful, amazing looms-- my hands are clumsy and I kind of totally suck at it, but I am completely in love.  I love the difficulty that surrounds weaving; the attention to detail.  I have to pay extreme attention to every move that I make on the loom, and the loom takes no prisoners.  No comfort is given to the weaver.  All in all, the work is hella backbreaking.

So, back to what I was saying about the bottle of wine.  I was juxtaposed against the value of another girl, and was told that I was like a thousand dollar bottle of champagne, when all he could handle was a fifty dollar bottle, or something to that effect.  I find this funny, because I have dirt beneath my finger nails and am chewing on the ends of my hair.  While I see myself as a rare bottle of champagne, it doesn't really matter, because love is a strange equalizer.  My husband has never put me in a competition with another soul; bless him, I know that there have been many times that I have not been so generous with him.  I've come to comprehend exactly how happy I am with him; how thoroughly fulfilled. 

Love, for it to be fully realized, must be so consuming that it becomes business as usual.  There are fifty dollar bottles of wine that suffice, and then there are those whose extraordinary price is no longer important, because it withstands time and it surpasses place and reason.  There are girls with shiny engagement rings on their fingers who have not been thoroughly honored, and kept out of convenience.  What a pity, what a shame.  I should perhaps be tipped over and spilt out of my contents, but will remain remarkable for simple being. 

Isn't that what the price tag was all about?