I joined a group for writers.
Seemed like a good idea if I’m trying to write more than news these days. The “Guild” sent an email saying it’s almost Valentine’s Day so here’s a contest.
Complete this thought with a simile or metaphor: “Love is …”
Love is vomit.
Your spouse’s vomit — that is, and caring enough to make sure it gets where it is supposed to go and not freaking out when it doesn’t.
The other night, on a long-overdue date with my wife, I volunteered to drive and not imbibe. My wife usually fills that role and for many years has been very kind and unselfish in allowing me to have a few beers, blab too much and entrust the trip home to her.
This was different, though. She had more than her typical two beers. And she paid for it.
Realizing the situation. Assessing her condition. Taking side streets. Knowing just when to pull over.
Aha! Realizing she can use the plastic garbage bag hanging from the glove compartment. Staying calm when that bag quickly balloons. Any holes? Whew!
Ensuring she’s comfortable at home on the couch, even in a sitting-up position, even with the little garbage can under her chin. Asking gently if we could please, pretty please try to go to bed now?
She thanked me effusively the next day.
Acting haughty, I told her she was going to have to take care of the now-freezing plastic bags near the front door where I had tossed them (you know, the smell) but she was really dragging. And, it had snowed. So I handled them, too.
After a good mouthwash, she rewarded me with a nice kiss, a hug, a squeeze.
Hey, I actually got off easy.
She took care of me one time when, painted green for a Halloween costume, I not only got sick on myself, but fell asleep naked in the tub. She didn’t freak out. And she took care of, well, the mess.
Yes, it’s love.
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