When I was about six years old, my dad asked me the stupidest question I’d ever heard.
“How many days are in a week?”
He reached for the radio dial. “Listen to this, and you might change your mind.”
And that’s how it started.
I ain’t got nothin’ but love, girl, eight days a week.
I’ve never been more disappointed than the first time I fell in love. At 13, it’s hard to accept that George Harrison is not only 45 years your senior, but also rather dead.
Some girls say the Disney princesses gave them unrealistic expectations about love. Not me. I blame John, Paul, George and Ringo, too, because I’ve been spending my life waiting for a boy who exists only in a Beatles song. I’ve been searching for a guy who thinks there are eight days in a week. A guy who can’t forget the time or place where we just met. A guy who is happy just to dance with me.
Do guys like this really exist? Do they? Highly doubtful.
If you let me take your heart, I will prove to you / we will never be apart, if I’m part of you.
Of course, I have no research on the subject, but I get the distinct impression that my search is in vain. It seems like most boys are trying desperately to enlighten me as to just how unrealistic my dreams are. And perhaps that’s because most girls just play along with the game. Besides, it only takes one night in a D.C. bar to forever shatter your faith in love.
Girls with short skirts totter around in 4-inch heels, drunkenly leaning on the arms of greedy-faced boys they don’t know. Boys with sweaty hair prowl the dance floor looking for groups of girls with intoxicated stragglers. Tearful girls throw their shoes at indignant boys in the middle of the road, and they walk away in separate directions, leaving a pair of sparkling heels under a traffic light on M Street.
Seriously? What is this? The Beatles didn’t prepare me for any of this.
Who knows how long I’ve loved you / You know I love you still / Will I wait a lonely lifetime / If you want me to, I will.
I grew up thinking a boy loves a girl because she’s sweet and lovely. I grew up thinking love was more than just holding hands. I grew up thinking you love someone forever and forever, and you love them with all your heart. Obviously, it’s not that simple and love isn’t all you need. Thanks a lot, George.
Some day when we’re dreaming, deep in love, not a lot to say / then we will remember the things we said today.
Of course I’m not trying to suggest that nice guys don’t exist (I can point to any number of boys in my life who negate that argument: My brother, my father, my male cousins and friends). But these days, guys like that seem so hard to find.
Instead of “just call on me, and I’ll send it along with love from me to you,” we get “can you call back later? I’m playing Halo.” Instead of “we can work it out,” we get “it’s not you, it’s me.” Instead of “I’m living every moment, girl, for you,” we get “I’m not really looking for a relationship; I’m just talking about tonight.”
Had you come some other day / it might not have been like this / but you see now I’m too much in love
Maybe these really are unrealistic expectations. Maybe I really am looking for someone who doesn’t exist. Or maybe I’m just waiting for George Harrison to walk through my door.
Whether it’s rational or impractical, real or imagined, I still know exactly what I’m waiting for.
Keep all my love forever.
P.S. I love you.