Ah, “love.”
The word is like a worn-out knit sweater. It’s warm and cozy, but overused, threadbare, and just plain ol’ tired.
“I love you” just isn’t all that special anymore – everything from fresh Olive Garden breadsticks to brand new Jimmy Choos have been deemed unworthy recipients of this tri-syllabic, sappy phrase.
So really, even when it’s said with rapturous resonance, “I love you” lacks impact, that je ne sais quoi you feel when the orchestral music crescendos during a tear-jerking rom-com scene.
But when you experience love – whoa.
Now I’m not talkin’ about the mindless, robotic “I love yous” that are thrown around all willy nilly.
I’m talkin’ about that moment when he shows love with his heart (not with his skin flute), and allows it to illuminate the room with pure, unadulterated devotion. It’s spectacular.
So I have to ask: When did it hit you? When was that moment when you said, “Holy crap. He really does love me!”
When I surveyed my circle of friends, all of them eerily described similar moments when they knew – without a shadow of a doubt – they were loved.
Mine was no different.
One day, I was coughing up a lung and suffering through a gritty sore throat. “Ugh,” I thought. “I don’t want to see anybody or anything.” I buried myself underneath the sheets.
I was supposed to meet up with my significant other, but obviously, I was in no shape to be out and about. I texted him, “Sorry babe. Can’t go out today. Not feeling well.”
“Aww. Okay. Maybe next time. Feel better.” he replied.
Satisfied with his answer, I rolled back into bed and hoped disappearing under the covers would make me feel better.
An hour later, I heard a knock on the door. Normally, I would ignore it as it could have been some pesky door-to-door salesman, but y’all ever feel like you “know” who’s behind a knock? Something told me that I’d better open the door.
So I groggily got of bed, opened the door, and there he was.
I was pissed. Pissed.
I hate being around people when I’m sick, and he knew this. I’m just too miserable and gloomy, groaning and moaning about how I am certain to die.
“I’m going to take care of you, whether you like it or not,” he said. With him, he brought Ramen noodles, NyQuil, ginger ale, and throat spray. “You’re going to feel better by tomorrow.”
I was still irked, but how could I turn down anyone bearing medicinal gifts and promising a miracle?
He propped me up against two pillows on the bed, brought me hot chicken noodle soup, and lulled me to sleep by caressing my forehead. As his eyes emitted heartwarming compassion that damn-near engulfed the room, that’s when it hit me.
“Holy sh**” I thought.
He could have saved his money, stayed home, and waited until I was healthy enough to be of use to him (if you know what I mean).
“Is this love?” I wondered. “Well, I’ll be. I think it is!”
As aforementioned, my friends who also experienced pure love recounted the same scenario – that moment when their partner was selfless in ensuring their health and well-being. But what is it that’s so magnetic about having someone take care of you?
“It’s because they’re seeing you at your worst, snot-nosed and disheveled, and still, all they want to do is hold you in their arms,” a friend said.
“You just feel secure. I knew that if this ever lasts, I could count on him to be by my side always. That, to me, is pretty close to true love,” another added.
What about you? When was that moment you felt true love?
Kimberly Gedeon is a content creator with nearly 2,000 professional articles published online. Say hello to her on Twitter @sweetenedcafe or Instagram @kimmiexsweetie. She doesn’t bite … much.
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