Tank filled daily

A few years ago, on my sister-in-law’s recommendation, I read The Five Languages of Love.  You know the book, right?  Some smart dude - schooled in love, I suppose – writes a book concerning love.  The concept?  Our personal love-o-meters are an internal gas tank {a ‘love tank’ he calls it} in constant need of a fill-up.  All sorts of lovey dovey stuff fill our tank.  Like the time Spencer dug my car out of the snow on the first day of school.  TWICE!  No kidding, I attempted to reverse out of the driveway and got the car stuck in a huge ole’ snow drift.  Spence dug the car out, made some joke about keeping my hands at ten and two, and sent me on my merry way.  I put the car back into reverse, stepped on the gas, then BAM!  Good crap, stuck again!  Second snow drift and I hadn’t even made it out of our driveway {it was a sorta long driveway, people}.  So I hollered for Spencer, and like a true gentleman he grabbed the snow shovel, repeatedly hit my hood until it was smashed beyond recognition and told me to go back to driving school.  Except for not really, because that wouldn’t have filled my love tank in the least.  Plus, the car was half his and the shovel was brand new so that would’ve been dumb.  Instead he dug the car out, AGAIN, without complaint and didn’t even mutter one stupid women driver joke under his breath.  We both missed our first class on the first day of school but we walked away one inside joke richer and my ‘love tank’ was a little fuller.

Anyway, where was I?  Oh yeah, all sorts of lovey dovey stuff fill our tank. . . like back when Spencer and I were dating lovebirds.  It was a cold, snowy, icy evening and we’d ordered pizza, rented a movie and were planning a date night at his house.  Except, I got sick.  Nauseous, queasy, feverish.  We were poor college students at the time and we couldn’t bear {or afford} for an entire pizza go to waste - so Spencer gave me the keys to his pick-up and I drove myself home and got in bed – and he stayed behind and ate the pizza.  Somebody had to do it.  A few hours later there was a knock on my apartment door.  It was Spencer.  He was there to check on me.  Except for remember how at the beginning of the story I mention I had taken his truck?  Well he’d ice-skated, in the middle of the winter, from his apartment to my apartment, to check on me.  Like, ice-skated.  Laced his ice-skates on his feet, grabbed his hockey stick for added leverage and ice-skated the three miles to my house.  Ice-skated!

Anyway, the author argues that all sorts of lovey dovey stuff fill our tank.  But there are certain things that really make us swoon.  Our primary love language he calls it.  There are five of them:  Words of Affirmation, Quality Time, Receiving Gifts, Acts of Service and Physical Touch. 

Spencer’s primary love language?  Gifts.  Definitely gifts.  Which means he is also a suburb gift giver.  He once spent an entire week researching kitchen knives because I had hinted that I wanted a new set for my birthday.  He read reviews, checked out multiple sets in stores, watched videos and purchased the perfect knife set.  When I mentioned I wanted a bike for my birthday this year he educated himself on all things women’s bikes.  He blew me away when he started talking bikes with the salesman at the bike store.

Ironically I’m a crappy, practical gift giver.  The kind that gives toothbrushes, underwear and socks under the Christmas tree.  And I’m an even worst gift receiver.  The idea of money being spent on me in gift form makes me nauseas.  Truly, nausea.  Every holiday {birthday, Christmas, anniversary, every.single.holiday} I beg Spencer to forgo the gifts.  He never does, of course.  And since reading The Five Languages of Love I’ve been more aware and have been trying to be a better gift receiver/giver.  I still have a long ways to go.

I saw this cute little bench at the antique store and immediately fell in love with it.  I hinted to Spencer that I wanted it for my anniversary gift {since I knew full well he’d be getting me a gift no matter what}.  I made him promise that if he got the bench that he’d do nothing else – that he wouldn’t spend any more money on me.  Don’t worry about getting flowers, please, pretty please might have been my exact statement.

This evening the doorbell rang.  I opened the door to find Spencer and the kids sitting on my new bench.  Happy Anniversary, they shouted.  And then they delivered a huge bouquet made up of sweet, sweet candy.  Because you told me I couldn’t get you flowers.  But you didn't tell me I couldn't get you candy.  And it doesn't count as an anniversary without some kind of bouquet!

I’m the luckiest gal around. 

Happy eight years babe.  Thanks for constantly filling my tank.  And for making me so happy.

 

P.S.  In case you’re curious, I’m bilingual.  Quality time + Acts of Service.

Have you read the book?  What is your love language?