I don't look good in aprons, anyway.

I want to announce something to the world:

I love my boyfriend. I do. I love him. I adore him, I treasure him, I cherish him. I want to marry him and have his babies. I think he's wonderful, fantastic, lovely, neat-o, extraordinary, cool, awesome. I am smitten with him, crazy about him, gaga over him, mad for him. He is my heart, my world, my universe, and I can't imagine a life without him where the sun wouldn't shine just that much less.

And you know what? There's not a damned thing wrong with any of that.

I realized several months ago that I was censoring myself when it came to talking about Ryan. I sat down and analyzed this, wondered what it was I feared would happen if I mentioned just how awesome he is and how much he means to me. And I struck on it: I was afraid of being frowned upon.

In modern society, there is an undercurrent of disapproval if you talk about your mate in a positive manner. It could be argued that it's seen as gloating, bragging about something you have that others don't, but I think there's something more. Something that is especially true with women.

It's a sign of weakness. If you show any sign that your happiness is related to another person--especially if you are a woman and that other person is a Man--then you might as well put on an apron, get in the kitchen, and make up some supper. You've just set Women's Rights back 50 years.

Somewhere along the line, affection for got mixed up with dependence on, and now calling someone your world is the equivalent of vowing to never have a mind of your own.

Oh, but if you want to complain? HAVE AT! Go on! Enjoy yourself! Have a ball! Bitching about the one you love shows you are not a drone, you are self-aware enough to realize that this person is not perfect.

I want to clear the air right now. I know my boyfriend isn't perfect. He makes mistakes, forgets things, puts his foot in his mouth. He almost always forgets to put up away messages online, he won't throw away his snack wrapper for days and days and days, he'll throw paper into the trash can and NOT the recycling bin half the time, and if he walks by without paying attention and unplugs my computer one more time I'll chop his foot off. Ryan isn't perfect, but I wouldn't want a perfect version of him, because I'm not a perfect version of me, and then we'd drive each other crazy in a slightly different way than we do now.

I know that, if we broke up, I would not shrivel up and die, I would not be guaranteed to spend the rest of my life along, the sun would not stop shining or the birds stop singing. I could live without him, I could possibly even be happy without him. I just don't want to.

I don't think he's the only good person in the world, the only attractive person, the only smart person. I don't think he's better than anyone else. He's just better for me.

Ryan makes me happy. He understands me, my craziness, my obsessions, my weaknesses, my faults, and at the end of the day, he'll always be there to hold me when I cry, he'll sit on the couch with minimal eye rolling as I coo over Say Yes To The Dress, he'll insist that I have some form of protein with my macaroni and cheese dinner. He takes care of me, he helps me, and he lets me help him without the first though that it damages his status as a man.

We can have conversations that range from what's for dinner to our future kids' names to how the Trial of Champions raid works to that weird house on the corner to the ethics of highway driving. We tease each other, make fun of each other, poke and tickle and push buttons. We understand each other.

I want to marry him, buy a house with him and make it a home, have his kids, build a life, fight and make up, do big exciting things with him, do the little everyday things with him, work with him, play with him, retire with him, grow old and die with him.

And yet, I do not feel that my education, my career, or the ability to have an opinion of my very own is in jeopardy. How very interesting.