Walking on air.
Floating on Cloud Nine.
I used to think they were just stupid clichés for stupid people who actually thought that ideas so utterly ridiculous could be true, or were just naive enough to believe whatever foolish mom-and-pop-country-bumpkin-emotional-nutjob sayings people have come up with. I mean, what kind of idiot seriously believes that being in love is like walking on air? And how would you know even if it was?
It’s absurd.
And even more disturbingly, true.
I’m fairly certain I’ve never literally walked on air before, but dammit if this isn’t exactly what it would feel like if I ever did. I swear if I weighed down any less, I’d float off, never to be heard from again. There’s just something about being around her, about hearing her voice, her laugh, that makes me feel buoyant. Toss me in the ocean and slap a bell on my head—I’m a frigging buoy. I imagine it’s a lot what it feels like to be O’Hara. Now I’m sure it’s a miracle that tethers her to the ground.
What’s even stranger is that I can’t even be sure where the weight that was holding me down before was coming from. Sure, my wife played a part, but I know I’ve always felt heavier than this. All I know anymore is that there’s no going back.
I’ve found my cloud, and come hell or high water, I’m staying on it.