It may sound absurd

I always used to wonder how it was that most couples have ’songs.’ You know those couples –the obnoxious ones, who cuddle in public and flirt on the bus and do everything possible to let you know that, yes, they are happy and in love, and you are not. And they always have ’songs.’

“Our song,” they’ll say, as they sit with you at the dinner table — they’re cuddling, you’re searching through your mashed potatoes for a girl — “is ‘Fuck the Police.’” Or some Phil Collins song. Or whatever. And you nod and wait for dessert to come, hoping they’ll bring a girl with it.

I’ve very recently become one of these obnoxious couples.

Not by myself, mind you, there’s a girl involved. And we have a song. I’m not really sure how this happened. I never thought I’d be the type to have a song, considering my 700-song mp3 list is composed mostly of rip-your-heart-out depression music. It’s not that I’m a depressed individual — quite the opposite really — I just like hearing about other people who ARE depressed; it makes me feel nice.

But our song isn’t a depressing one. It’s not a song that was ever on my playlist before her, and it’s likely not a song that would have ever been added. It’s silly. A top 40 pop song; I think it’s been featured on Dawson’s Creek. This is a song the elitists among us are trained to dislike from first listen. It’s absolutely beautiful.

The song is “Superman,” by Five for Fighting. You can go download it now, if you’d like, though I doubt it’ll have quite the effect on any of you that it has on me. It’s just an easy-listening pop song. Unspectactular. Probably from some band destined to be a one-hit wonder. Every time I hear it I think of her.

It was never a conscious thing. Pearle enjoys the soft-rock stations, so we ended up listening to that as she drove around and ran stop signs. And all through March, it seems like all the best moments — the most memorable moments — were scored by that song. It’s not even a love song, really — it’s about Clark Kent for god sakes — but there it was, on the radio, soft notes: Even Heroes have the right to dream.

I got off the plane in July much less nervous than last time. Which was a good thing because last time I swear I was about two inches from death. My flight came in a little late; the pilot explained it was because the luggage was heavy. I suspect drunkenness.

My laptop bag weighs 100 pounds and the walk from the plane to the baggage claim is approximately 100 miles. She stood there and was beautiful all over again in a black dress and everything came rushing back with such force. And it was so easy to hold her again.

We waited for my bag on the merry-go-round of baggage, alternating between holding hands and putting our arms around one another. When the bag finally came, we set off to figure out where the hell she parked. She parked so close to the concrete divider; I had to squeeze with all my might to get to the passenger door. I love her anyway. Parking paid and luggage loaded, the red minivan that is, I believe, 90-years-old, started and the radio switched on — with that song.

Our song.

And it played through all four days, yet again. I understand now how couples get their songs. They really don’t get to choose, I don’t think — we certainly didn’t — it just always was THAT song. When I first got there, and later when I left, after we had sat together in the setting sun on a road near the airport, and every so often planes would fly overhead, and we’d watch them land. And when I kissed her, I could taste her tears. We pulled out as the streetlights were coming on, and there it was again — our song.

It’s always that song. It’s a terrible song. There are a million songs in the world, and that one became ours. And like everything else she touches, I think it’s beautiful. Our song is a soft rock song. Our song is a top-40 pop hit. Our song will probably be included on some compilation disc that will be bought by a zillion fourteen year old girls because they think the lead singer of the band is hot. And when I hear it, I almost cry.

It’s not easy to be me.