I ask my husband the same maddening question at least once or twice a week: “Do you love me?”
“Yes,” he replies.
“How much?”
“A lot.” He is absorbed in his computer screen.
Hmph, I think to myself, He should say yes, but that didn’t do it for me. I’m still craving something stronger.
Sometimes I feel insecure, unpretty and in need of reassurance, and I want someone to convince me of my loved-ness. When I ask this mindless question I am really asking for something that he cannot give me with a word.
I used to think this was because we overused the word, causing its true guttural meaning to fade little by little. We say, “I love those shoes!” or “I love her hair cut” or “Tell me you love me”. But really, I think it is because love lives in an action, not in the verbal word. Anyone can say…
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