On Friday night, The Wedding Date told me he loved me. But I don’t think he was talking to me. I think he was talking to my bra.
His exact words were, “God, I love you!”
But he was staring at my chest, probably because we were in his bedroom and I had just removed my sweater to reveal my one and only Victoria’s Secret bra—but still.
How does one accidentally drop the “L” word? (Especially when you pause to consider the fact that my cleavage is hardly my greatest asset.)
I didn’t respond. I mean, what’s a girl supposed to say to that? I don’t think he even realized that he’d said the “L” word and I myself wasn’t sure until I ran over the entire scene over again in my head, but he did.
He totally did.
I’ve written quite a bit about the “L” word in the past. In fact, those of you who have been following the progress of my Great Date Experiment may recall a post I wrote a few months ago entitled Your First I Love You??? I’ve no desire to rehash the embarrassing moments chronicled therein (although the best was definitely when my soon-be-to-boyfriend told me he loved me during my senior year of college and I proceeded to bang my head on the steering wheel in response) but I am happy to report that there was no head banging this time around. I simply kissed The Wedding Date in return and said nothing more on the subject because let’s face it: people say crazy things when they’re making out.
(Besides, I thought it was funny so please don’t worry when you read this later, TWD—no one’s ever given my non-existent cleavage such a compliment before.)
What I would like to discuss today is the process of falling in love, and of actually determining that you’ve fallen in love—as opposed to finding yourself simply intrigued by someone’s bra. Or sleepy. Or drunk.
Over the course of the past eighteen months, I’ve spent a lot of time sitting around and trying to figure out whether or not the feelings I’ve developed for a given individual actually constitute love. Out of the thirty men who were kind enough to serve as my “case studies” throughout the duration of my experiment, I’ve come close a handful of times—mainly because I have an overactive imagination and continue to suffer from an early introduction to Jane Austen novels—but in the end, I was always forced to conclude that my feelings were simply wishful thinking, not love.
A friend from high school who was several my senior and therefore an expert on everything once told me that there was no way to predict the process of falling in love.
“When you are, you’ll just know,” she said.
And I never believed her until it actually happened for the first time. I just knew, and the man in question knew, and even though we spent the next several months of our long distance relationship engaged in excessive melodramatics (“There’s something I need to tell you—but not over the phone. It has to be in person!”) the “L” word was eventually spoken.
And yet, with each successive relationship I’ve entered into, the love part has felt entirely different, so different that I can’t help but wonder if I’ve ever actually been in love before.
“Holy sh*t!” I find myself thinking, “So this is what it’s supposed to feel like?”
I don’t know.
Which is why I need your help: how do you know when you’re in love? (And please note: I’m talking about being in love with an actual person, not just their teal-and-jaguar-print bra.)
- Adventures in Cardio (and Compromise) with The Wedding Date (fieldworkinstilettos.com)
- The End, the Beginning and a Question from The Wedding Date (fieldworkinstilettos.com)