As a boy I thought love was an over-sweet combination of adoration and lust, something fueled by grand displays of a heart moved into action by the purest of all human emotion. I thought love was television romance; a perpetual, unwavering infatuation that consumed every waking minute. I thought love was defining and engrossing and debilitating and irresistible.
But I’ve grown up (or like to think I have) and realized that love of the manufactured sort – the kind boxed and wrapped and sold at $19.99 – is impossible to maintain. It’s not that you can’t show a part of your love with gifts and romantic gestures. It’s that love isn’t artificial. It can’t be built and shipped and cleverly displayed on store shelves.
Love isn’t a bouquet of long stemmed roses.
Love is a concerned wife sitting for hours in a hospital waiting room, doing her best to put on a brave…
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