I want a weekday kind of love.

A toothbrush kind of love.
A slippers-and-nothing-else kind of love.

It’s easy to be in love on the weekend—going out on dates, vacations.
Getting dressed up and caught up in the glamour.
But I want a weekday kind of love.
A friend, a conspirator, a partner-in-crime that pierces the mundane
and turns life into a marvelous, breathtaking adventure.

I would like to date someone I have fun folding socks with.

It can be a rainy Sunday and we can be folding laundry and just to annoy me you’ll run and unfold all my socks and begin to throw them at me and we’ll play sock dodgeball and just when I am getting frustrated, you’ll pick me up and kiss me and—oh screw it—not many people have made love in a sock graveyard.

I should like to meet someone to take baths with.

You might hate baths, but will have gone to the store and bought bubble bath and I may have done something to you under the water and you’ll pull me out and wrap me in your arms and towel dry all my makeup off and tell me I’m beautiful and we’ll fall asleep naked on the bathroom tile.

I would adore someone I can do the dishes with.

I am supposed to wash and you dry, but I offer to do both and so you’ll bring out ice cream and begin to make us sundaes and throw candy up in the air which I will try to catch in my mouth because my hands are wet and we’ll laugh when it bounces off my nose and instead into the glass I just cleaned.

I crave someone to shovel the snowy driveway with.

I look like a marshmallow and I’ve put on so many layers that I’m actually hot now. I’ll take a break from our shoveling and begin to take a lap around the yard and I’ll fall face-first in the snow, but you’ll come right over, laughing hysterically and you’ll kiss my cold red nose and I’ll climb on top of you and I think I’ll make you my snow angel.

I’d love someone who I can put up a tent with.

I am terrible at putting up tents and so are you, but we’ll try to figure it out together and I can’t say we won’t argue because we both agree tents are impossible, but we’ll communicate and we’re a team and we’ll laugh about how mad we were later as we lie in our poorly constructed tent with our stomachs burning from too many s’mores and too much Bailey’s.

I seek someone to sit in traffic with.

That guy in the convertible might have cut you off and we’re stuck in terrible traffic, but I’ll slide my hand to rub the back of your head because I know it calms you and we’ll play music way too loud and yell-sing at the top of our lungs with the windows down and afterward we’ll play trivia with our hands intertwined and the car behind us will honk because we’ll be so lost in each other we forgot about the traffic.

I want to find someone to read with.

You may not care for reading, but you’ll care for me so we’ll take turns and every time we switch we’ll call out an accent to read in and your Jamaican accent will sound like an Italian accent and we’ll laugh so hard that we cry and then vow to read poems instead of novels because we both have a short attention span and can never read more than twenty minutes without getting distracted.

But, most of all, I need someone to laugh with.

Love is built and strengthened in the little, everyday moments of life, but it can also be broken and battered by the same. Because a time may come when we are old and tired and bored and maybe you will not be able to pick me up and twirl me in your arms anymore and we might have more wrinkles than everyone else, but only because we laughed more and the question on everyone’s lips will be, “What was so damn funny?” and we’ll just laugh and say, “It’s a weekday kind of love.”

Author: Lea Pintozzi

Editor: Nicole Cameron

Image: B Rosen/Flickr