Early last week was bad for white boy. He was injured and is probably left with a broken foot. Now, he hasn't been to the doctor and continues to walk and work and do all the things. He continues to also piss me off because he hasn't gone. Granted, I tend to be stubborn too, but if that would have happened to me and my foot looked like that, I would have been at the doctor's office first thing in the morning.
Having said that, that is all I can think about in the back of my mind. How much he is in pain and how much it sucks. I can't fix it, but I can get irritated and semi-yell at him for not going to have it checked out. Guess that's how I cope. I love him, but damn is it frustrating.
Sometimes I wonder how people show love. Sometimes I wonder if people show love in grandiose ways or if the subtlety of love is what is true love. Sure, I mean when he proposed that was a good indicator that he loves me. When I said yes is also a good indicator that I love him. But there are smaller things. Always smaller things.
This weekend I was reminded how much he does love me. A few weeks back, we were taking a nap, and I have noticed when he gets tired or a little boozy he gets chatty (who doesn't, right?) and he told me he loved me more than he loved himself. I have never been told something so intimate. I have never been told something so scripturally sound, and I reeled.
Back to this weekend. Often, white boy tells me he loves me. I too don't ever hesitate to tell him how I feel and how much love I carry for him. But last night, as we were walking home from the cocktail-dance-wedding reception, he offered to carry me the mile to the hotel. Now, mind you we had been up all day, I had danced in my heels and bare feet for a few hours, we started walking toward this bar that should have taken 5 minutes but took an hour because we got turned around, and he was up with a black and blue most likely broken foot and he is offering to carry me. All the way back.
I was moaning and complaining because I was moaning and complaining. I couldn't help him and I knew he was in so much more pain, and so it was a mental vicious cycle for this boozy girl. But the pain was too much. I slowly walked a few paces behind him and noticed his slight limp. He was carrying my purse on one shoulder, my heels in the other, and wearing my bracelets on his arm. And I was helpless for him. Watching him tell me over his shoulder that he would carry me every 10 seconds was love, but when he stopped me, unlaced his shoes, took off his socks, and gave them to me...that's when the moment was too much. He wanted to hand over his shoes, but I wouldn't let him. He forced his broken and achy foot back into his shoes and watched me pull on the black mid-calf socks. And he told me he loved me. He gave me a small respite from the rocks and hard pavement. This is love. This is what it means to be taken care of at all costs. This is what I am marrying. This is love. Wow.
Having said that, that is all I can think about in the back of my mind. How much he is in pain and how much it sucks. I can't fix it, but I can get irritated and semi-yell at him for not going to have it checked out. Guess that's how I cope. I love him, but damn is it frustrating.
Sometimes I wonder how people show love. Sometimes I wonder if people show love in grandiose ways or if the subtlety of love is what is true love. Sure, I mean when he proposed that was a good indicator that he loves me. When I said yes is also a good indicator that I love him. But there are smaller things. Always smaller things.
This weekend I was reminded how much he does love me. A few weeks back, we were taking a nap, and I have noticed when he gets tired or a little boozy he gets chatty (who doesn't, right?) and he told me he loved me more than he loved himself. I have never been told something so intimate. I have never been told something so scripturally sound, and I reeled.
Back to this weekend. Often, white boy tells me he loves me. I too don't ever hesitate to tell him how I feel and how much love I carry for him. But last night, as we were walking home from the cocktail-dance-wedding reception, he offered to carry me the mile to the hotel. Now, mind you we had been up all day, I had danced in my heels and bare feet for a few hours, we started walking toward this bar that should have taken 5 minutes but took an hour because we got turned around, and he was up with a black and blue most likely broken foot and he is offering to carry me. All the way back.
I was moaning and complaining because I was moaning and complaining. I couldn't help him and I knew he was in so much more pain, and so it was a mental vicious cycle for this boozy girl. But the pain was too much. I slowly walked a few paces behind him and noticed his slight limp. He was carrying my purse on one shoulder, my heels in the other, and wearing my bracelets on his arm. And I was helpless for him. Watching him tell me over his shoulder that he would carry me every 10 seconds was love, but when he stopped me, unlaced his shoes, took off his socks, and gave them to me...that's when the moment was too much. He wanted to hand over his shoes, but I wouldn't let him. He forced his broken and achy foot back into his shoes and watched me pull on the black mid-calf socks. And he told me he loved me. He gave me a small respite from the rocks and hard pavement. This is love. This is what it means to be taken care of at all costs. This is what I am marrying. This is love. Wow.
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