People define love in all kinds of ways.
There's the famous "love means you never have to say you're sorry" definition.
There's the Team Fever definition -- all those folks emphasize the pounding heart, the trembling hands, the locked eyes -- yanno, that feeling you got by the second date with your Prince Charming.
Then there's the Team Endurance definition -- and these folks talk about Golden Wedding Anniversaries and loving someone more as both their wrinkles and their faults grow more obvious.
I tell you, I'm firmly in the camp of Team Endurance. Matrimonial life is a marathon, not the sprint your dating years were.
As I write this, I am laid up with a severely bad kidney infection -- bad enough I wound up in the ER in the middle of the night getting pumped full of IV antibiotics.
I was SUPPOSED to fix hot wings for The Big Game. But my dear hubby and dear daughter both volunteered to try to cook them.
That is love, when a pair of non-cooks try to follow a recipe.
And they broke my deep-fry/candy thermometer -- and it was a Polder, too.
I didn't yell.
So I guess THAT'S love.
I supervised the heating of the oil from a stool, while hubby stood at the ready and my kiddo mixed the sauce. I felt like I was going to fall off that stool.
They told me thank you about a million times. And propped me up. And swore that they had this covered, to go back to bed. But their deer-in-the-headlight looks gave them away.
Doing something you're afraid of for someone else? That's DEFINITELY love.
And then, when I tottered back to the couch, The Kiddo made me a plate and brought it to me. The Hubby sat with me so the Permed Dachshund wouldn't steal it.
Yeah. You can keep your palpitations and meaningful glances, Team Fever. Because bringing a plate to the sick-as-dog-couldn't-deliver-the-wings-on-her-own woman who's doing an astonishing impersonation of a throw rug on the couch?
THAT'S love. Definitely.