A horribly tossed-around word, "love," and I should take better care of it. I throw it around like sweat socks: I love "Margaritaville", I love Tom Wolfe, I love Sharpies, I love it when my deodorant works.
So lately I've been trying to cut down on verbal abuse such as this, and reserve "love" for only those things in my life which hold my highest esteem and adoration, like my county and my friends and my pending niece/nephew and the baby Jesus and of course Sharpies. Sometimes I'll even separate it out, adding "with my heart" to the designation so as to separate it from the cheese pizza category: "I love the pines of Colorado," I'll say, "with my heart." And then everyone within hearing distance bursts into tears.
You can miss with your heart, too. I miss The Womb with my heart. My heart misses those pine trees, too, come to think of it.
It is dangerous, however, to love or miss things and people with your heart. It hurts more when they turn on you. Which is why you will never hear me say, "With my heart, O infomercial exercise equipment, I love you!"
September 30, 2003