BANISHMENT 1: The Everyday "I Love You"

I sat down at the keyboard this morning with my steaming Good Morning coffee mug, a bowl of Lucky Charms, and the somewhat selfless intention of writing my boyfriend, heretofore referred to as Handsome Thunder, a fantastically sappy email about how much I liked his eyes and his big strapping muscles and all sorts of other body parts one shouldn't mention during the fasting season of Lent.

But as the black roast hit the back of my throat and my fingers hit the keys, I began to realize that this all feels absurdly familiar. Deja vu of Love Letter Writers Anonymous.

You are wonderful! I can't imagine life without you! Can we name our firstborn Apple Suri Gumdrop? And the incredible, but cursed three letter symphony of 'I Love You.'

I reread the start of my email and I'm nearly certain the flowers on my windowsill (for yes, I am the kind of girl who has flowers and a sill) all but burst into a grand chorus of "The Way You Look Tonight." The marshmallows in my bowl looked up in beat, batting their puffy eyes, all eager and drowning in sappy, fake pastel-colored milk. And my coffee, typically so obedient and dapper, foamed up hearts in its froth and tickled my nose with its unheard of sultry steam. I wanted, at once, to vomit. It was all so despicably cliche.

I remember the first time I said 'I love you' to Handsome Thunder. They were very scary words that acted commonly like an abused pup at the shelter, backing up into the corner until they were absolutely prodded, practically forced out. But when I said them, when I finally said them, it was no-bullshit Mel Gibson in Braveheart. I meant serious, intense business. Nothing about the words then foamed, danced or asked to have any sort of towels monogrammed with future initials. Saying 'I love you' was a necessity. Words that absolutely had to come out under threat of a broken esophagus. But the 'I love you' I was using this morning, the 57 billionth 'I love you' of our lifetime, felt so boring. So predictable. So lifeless. Less sincere than OJ Simpson on trial.

I immediately, and without hesitation, pressed a prolonged delete. Letters flew back into cyberspace at warp speed and I was left with a blinking cursor and an unwritten email to Handsome Thunder. I love him. Yes, of course. This is an easy answer. But love is much more valuable as an action item than a phrase one hears on repeat at the end of every phone call or as a precursor to every walk out the door. Saying the-three-little-words with such complacency risked having a very valuable, precious sentiment sound akin to, "Hello, and welcome to Movie Phone." And no one, not even Hugh Hefner, can stand that.

As my marshmallows danced and my coffee seethed, I realized  that the thing I should give up for lent, before I give up my wine, sailor tongue, or addiction to the Sundance Catalog, should be the everyday 'I love you.' Those three-little-words have gotten way too out of hand. They've become Martha Stewart at Christmas. Too many darn garnishes and tinsel. Trees that practically sprout glitter. What I want, what I really, really want, is just the real bare necessities. The 'I love you' akin to axing down your own pine tree in the forest and staking it up in the family room, it's rough, wintery edges exposed for all to see and stare. It might not be pretty or typical, but there will never be a doubt that it's authentic. And it will certainly never lose its magic.