I rolled out of bed sometime around 6:30 am. Like most of my generation and anyone who has ever gone to school Monday to Friday, I dread Mondays. I don’t professionally have a reason why. After all, I am the worst at psychology–I lived with my depression, Bi Polar II and probably anxiety untreated for decades because I just thought that’s how everybody do.
So I go through my morning (I originally spelled it, “mourning,” and maybe that’s also true) routine, got my coffee, sat down, tooled about on the internet and then clocked in and went to work writing content. It’s an especially hard client for me to write for. They’re hip. They’re happenin’. They got the appeal of the young peoples or at least, want more of it and I am a 41 year old white nerd that enjoys cats and Star Wars and Unicorns and Hello Kitty and using yeet in any of my sentence is grounds for wincing and appropriation of language not my own.
I’m feeling my age as I struggle through to write what I need to and decide finally to nab breakfast on the way to girding my loins and getting back to content writing. It’s toast and butter for my husband and self today. It’s very simple, but it works.
And that’s when I had the epiphany, and perhaps, the understanding of what I think love truly is. At least. For the two of us.
It’s simple. But it works.
I noticed that when I butter his toast I do what my grandmother would do when making sandwiches or toast for family. I can even hear her instructing me when making her famous egg-salad sandwiches that the key is to make sure, “the spread touches the whole surface of the bread, so there’s flavor in every bite. Not just the middle.”
So whenever I butter his bread (Innuendo not implied but I stopped in the middle of typing this to literally waggle my brows,) or use peanut butter or jam, I take a little longer than usual because I make sure to spread it out to every corner of the bread. So when he takes a bite, he’ll have the taste of whatever-it-is on the bread. This goes for tuna, egg salad, chicken and so on.
Will he notice? No. Do I want him to? Also no. (Although he might read this entry some time so then my jig is up, the goose is cooked, the dog barks at midnight and so on and so forth. Anyway, the point was–I don’t do it for recognition or thanks. I do it, because I love him.
I am guilty sometimes of doing something and then wanting acknowledgement. (Hi, look at my internet! Look at the millions of us on the internet, too!) But that’s a momentary thing and can get complicated.
My way of showing my love is often so small and so simple. And I often think that perhaps, instead of the grandiose gestures media, romance novels, movies and other things try and flood our brains with what is an expression of love–we need to remember the simpler things.
He’s always doing laundry. He’ll make the bed. He’ll hang a towel to dry after using it instead of bunching it up and shoving it on the rack (Guilty as charged. I DO GO BACK and fix it. Most of the time.) He’ll awkwardly pet my head with drunk on sleep at 4 in the morning for no reason. He puts the clean dishes away without anyone asking (and sometimes because it needs to be done). He puts the dirty dishes in the dish washer.
He makes wonderful, random bread. He’ll cook dinner.
Yesterday he tore apart our spare room (That I always call, “Spare Oom,” as Mr. Tumnus might say), its closet, re-organized everything and cleaned it top to bottom as it desperately needed it.
None of these were done on the back of a majestic white horse galloping through a field of white tulips with diamond jewelry being tossed at my feet by the way. (Although, if anyone wants to toss me real diamonds DM me for my address. I am available.)
Love is not as complicated as we make it out to be, I think.
It’s simple and it works.
For us, anyway.