I said this to a friend last night. Not just any friend, but a best friend. A friend that I’ve known since I was two years old. Yes, friends like that do exist. And sometimes I wonder if he knows me better than I know myself. Then I snap out of it, of course.

No, but really.

He told me a story. Well, he skyped me a story. His mom recollected a scene out of our young childhood that pretty much sums me up in a nutshell. Sums him up pretty well, too.

He wrote:

“and she was like, ‘when you all were in preschool, once you were sitting next to *name bleeped out for privacy purposes but it was another girl* drawing and playing with crayons etc, and Lauren was pissed about that (naturally), so she went to the corner of the room where all the chairs were stacked, pulled one off of the pile, and SHOVED it between you and **, then pushed all of **’s stuff to other side of the table. And Lauren sat there next to you and was drawing and talking to you. You, of course, were totally oblivious to the entire scene.’”

Ahh. The blissful unawareness of puppy love. That, of course, transcended into real-life adult love, which then morphed into me crying in a corner of a bar on my 22^nd Birthday. Sorry, J, had to throw that in there.

I read a quote today that made me smile.

It reads:

“When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You just know that your name is safe in their mouth.” – Billy, age 4

Yeah. You read it all right. Age 4. How is it humanly possible that a four-year-old has a better grasp of what love is than I do. Once again, the best friend comes to the rescue.

He says:

“I think, and I don’t think that this is too groundbreaking of a thought, that as we get older, we’re clearly tainted by all the BS in our lives to have that naive understanding of love.”

I respond:

“I hate kids.”

Sometimes I get scared. And I’m probably going to regret posting this on my blog, but it’s the truth. Take it or leave it.

Love makes you vulnerable. You can’t control it as it opens you up. And when you open up, you inadvertently allow someone to get inside you. Get inside you and take control. So then, you build up this wall of every defense mechanism you have in the book, and even those not written in the book. And then one stupid person, who’s no different than any other stupid person, finds the tiny peephole in your suit of armor, and you give in. You give them a piece of you. They never ask for it. They just did something mundane, one day, like bring you flowers, or kiss you, or smile at you, and then your heart isn’t your own anymore.

I wish it was as simple as it seemed in preschool. Sit in a world of oblivion (at least in J’s case). But I’ll always be that girl that takes my chair and shoves it right where it needs to be.