I have given a lot of thought to love lately. The intricacies that surround a relationship and the ebb and flow of intimacy. I am knee deep in my own self imposed research project. No deadline, no commitment to a boss, simply curious as to what tamps down the flame versus what brings life and makes it glow.

Red hot. Most relationships start this way. The color we associate with burning and passion. Scorching. Everything is new. Fresh. Time has not yet revealed the idiosyncrasies in your red hot loved one that may one day drive you mad.

I fell in love with my husband over a period of time but if I had to pinpoint the moment I realized he was the it I was looking for, I recall only one mental image. Sitting in a car full of girls on a frigid January day. New Years Day to be exact. A group of friends rang in the New Year and reconvened for lunch the following day. The girls followed the guys in a caravan and we watched as the vehicle ahead blew out a tire. They slowly pulled to the shoulder of the highway. I watched as a few guys got out and assessed the situation. However, I kept my eye on the one who pulled out the jack and the spare and went to work. I’ll never forget him laying on the side of the highway, jeans and coat now covered in highway dust and grime, methodically changing a tire for his buddy. Slowly. Carefully. A quick dusting off of his coat and on we went.

But back to love.

It was 2001 when I fell for the tire guy but as soon as I looked up from the bumper of that SUV I was surrounded by the four kids we created. It was 17 years but felt more like 17 seconds. The transition from focusing on that new spark and falling in love to focusing on not falling asleep on the couch at 7 PM was a mere blink. The work of work. The flurry of activities and the responsibilities associated with being a parent, spouse, employee, child, friend and volunteer. Sometimes I fear the once red hot flame is not so much red anymore.

I remember what it felt like in the early days of the relationship. The novelty of E.V.E.R.Y.T.H.I.NG. The way he held his fork and cocked his head to one side when he was deep in thought. The way he folded a towel. It was all swathed in newness and wonder, coated in a big layer of adorable.

Now, closing in on two decades, we anticipate one another’s moves. Finish each other’s sentences. In my head I hear him tell the joke seconds before it leaves his mouth. The newness is gone and we are left with……….

Routine. Structure. Monotony?

Sometimes.

Excitement comes in the form of a new recipe on Sunday nights. Or a third grade championship basketball game. A new bag of chips. The flame is hidden beneath layers of Common Core Math, week old laundry, semantic debates with a 10 year old budding lawyer. That flame nearly snuffed out by little feet up all through the night.

But back to the love.

I’m convinced, as a fretter, that the plane is headed for the mountain because there aren’t flowers. Or fancy jewelry. Or elaborate gifts. Which is ironic because I detest all three. I’d rather have a night out with delicious food. Hands down. However, sometimes the absence of the fancy gifts signals a warning in me that perhaps we’re doing it all wrong. We should be more like the couple in the jewelry commercial. Doe eyed and ignorant.

Marriage books recommend a weekly date which we actually accomplish quite well. I’m assuming they are referring to us sitting next to each other in church once a week. Or touching feet during This Is Us. Or catching those third grade basketball games. Surely these count as dates. Right?

Our relationship doesn’t seem to be in trouble but sometimes I think our flame is. One packed lunch away from going out. One argument discussion about how to get a child to understand adverbs without losing our minds for good. Reconciled to letting the flame die, simply getting old and rubbing each other’s bunions. Maybe sharing the same denture cup for added romance.

Roommates.

Today, on a frigid winter day, I blew out a tire when a completely irresponsible curb jumped in front of me. The nerve. The incident was entirely my fault since apparently curbs cannot be found negligent. I pulled off to the side of the road and sat. And sat.

I knew how this was going to work. I would call my husband and he would ask what happened. A story would be shared about the thoughtless curb and he would be irritated with my carelessness. (This was how my daydream unfolded because it was how I would have reacted.)  Knowing just how bad the tire was, I expected some huffing and puffing since he would be the one to correct my mishap.

He didn’t answer right away so I sat, contemplating my stupidity for some time. When he returned my call and said, “What’s up?” I blurted out the entire event, ripping off the band-aid of embarrassment in the hopes it might hurt less. It didn’t.

He began laughing. A bit dumbfounded by his response, I did what I do when I’m confused. I went silent. He let me know he’d meet me shortly.

He arrived soon after, four kids in tow. Wearing work jeans and an ancient Carhartt jacket, he met my eyes, left his van and came to my window. Gently knocking, he let me know he’d find the spare as the rain began to fall. After locating and inflating the spare, calling the tire store and shuttling vehicles back and forth, he took my hand and said, “We really needed two new tires anyway.”

He worked methodically, just like that Tire Guy of old. He finally got everything situated, only fussing at me once when I was trying to assist a bit too much.

Winking and saying, “Lemme be the man, dammit.”

So, as I continue my examination on love and what it encompasses, I have a few leads. I have considerable investigation left ahead but I do know:

Love looks a lot like fixing a flat tire in the rain with no complaints. It is more late night discussions about youth sports and less late night dates. Love is making sure your spouse has clean work shirts or her favorite snack. Love is loving on the little ones, throwing one more load of towels in the washing machine when you’d rather just throw in the towel. It is seeing the chick flick when you’d prefer wings and ESPN. It is carting four kids to umpteen football games for years on end. (Totally hypothetical.)

The hottest flame is not red but rather light blue and burns at around 1800 degrees.

Here’s to late night footsie while watching This Is Us and aiming for blue flame versus red.