All You Need Is Love

I recently stumbled upon the following quote: "I fell in love with Boston, so hopefully I'll be here for a long time." - Jonathan Damon

Delicious.

I love this quote for two reasons. First, Johnny Damon not only resembled a Neanderthal during his days with the Red Sox, but he actually talks like a primitive human being. Seriously. The next time he's interviewed, close your eyes and try as hard as possible to imagine the speaker without a massive underbite. You can't do it. This is a man that out-earns an English teacher before noon every single day.

Anyways, the second reason I love this quote is because Damon -- now a Yankee (sort of) -- hit the nail on the head. Boston is easy to fall in love with. It's like the beautiful girl next door: approachable, not too intimidating, and fun without being too insane. But this week, I noticed something about my brand new love. She's got some terrible issues she manages to hide until I get back to my bedroom (typical).

You see, out my window, rising just west of my happy place, sits Fenway Park. (Remember in the movie The Girl Next Door when Emile Hirsch finds out that Elisha Cuthbert is actually a porn star? Well this is exactly the same, only replace "porn star" with "Satan.")

Here's my average evening on the night of a Sox game:
6:00 p.m. -- Leave work happy, upbeat, optimistic about life.
6:15 p.m. -- Wedge myself in between 8 Sox fans who keep yelling, "Wicked!" and 4 drunk college girls who keep yelling, "Papelbon!"
6:30 p.m. -- Arrive home. Begin drinking heavily.

After each game, fans walk or drive slowly away from Fenway, Sox gear as far as the eye can see (from my window). When I see this, and I see the lights of that cursed ballpark, it's like all the warmth and happiness of the world has suddenly been sucked away.

With this weighing over me all week, I invited over my old friend Pat for a few drinks on my roof deck to make myself feel better. From up there, I can look above the Sox fans to the open sky as the sun sets, to the Pru and the John Hancock building as their windows gradually light with the coming darkness. I can feel a cool breeze and take stock of what's really important in my life, in my new apartment, and in my new home that I'm trying so hard to love despite her flaws. Because that's what love is. Love is about forgiveness. Love is about making that extra effort. Love is about compromise.

"Great view, isn't it?" I asked Pat.

"Just wait 'til the playoffs," he said. "The Pru puts up a big 'Go Sox' sign."

Love stinks.