I have wondered, often, about the telltale sign that I am in love.
Don’t get me wrong, I have loved before. He knows who he is (no, not you, him), who he was. I still think about him and even though things got awful between us, I tell myself not to focus on those things. To try to focus on the memories that were good. There’s no sense in hurting yourself further if you know you don’t want to go back to that person, and you’re at a place where you can admit that yeah, there were good times.
But I have never been “in” love. I’ve never been in a place where I felt like my life would be better with that person than without them. I’ve never had the euphoria, the happiness, the comfort and solace. The desire to be with them above all else.
However, a strange thing happened recently.
I woke up and was left dangling in that weird, lucid state between dreaming and reality. Suddenly, the question popped up in my mind: If someone came up to me and asked to choose between having (let’s call him Chipotle) in my life and living comfortably without debts or a need for anything, with great kids or moving to another country and living with my pets in a cottage with sweet neighbors as a bestselling author, would I choose Chipotle?
That is the litmus test.
The day I meet a man and can say to myself I’d be willing to give up WRITING for him, check your mailboxes because I’m in love and the wedding invitations have been sent.
For now, there’s nothing in the world I love more than writing. Well, except for my nieces and nephews. But that’s different. Them’s my babies.