Dear Cupid,
When they said, "love is blind," they weren't kidding.
Most of your adherents imagine you floating about with a garland of roses draped around your midriff just so. You let out one adorable giggle after another as you sprinkle magic dust upon would-be lovers. It catches in their eyelashes, the tiny flecks glinting in the moonlight like secret diamonds.
You’re depicted in movies lurking playfully as our sweethearts run through driving rain storms, tears and raindrops streaming down their cheeks before finally embracing amid crowded figures hulking beneath umbrellas. Or you perch on the conductor’s shoulder and sigh as two lovers place their hands on either side of a train's window just before it leaves the station, one en route to a lonely destination whilst the other vows to wait forevermore.
That ain't how it really works, now is it, Cupid?
Frankly, Cupid, I don't know how in the name of Zeus you recognized that dreadful scene in my bathroom the other night as one of your most perfect opportunities, but you did. Somehow, someway, you were there. But make no mistake, I'm filing this under the "mysterious ways" category—big time.
I mean, what gives? You see a case of food poisoning and think: Y’all need a shot of Cupid’s love! So much for hearts and flowers.
I must have looked a sight, there in the bathroom, doubled over on the pot as my insides clenched into a painful knot. I was going to ride it out; just let my body do what it does in these instances: a necessary and spectacular expulsion of whatever was offending the soft human flesh that makes me, well, me.
It wasn't magic dust, was it? Maybe it was. Whatever it was, it didn't settle into my eyelashes and sparkle in the moonlight. Nope. Instead a cold sweat enveloped me and became so copious, it ran down my face and dripped from the tip of my nose without a raincloud in sight.
Then my breathing felt off, and the knot grew into insistent nausea. But still, I thought: ride it out.
When the world went white, like a mist closing in around my line of vision, I thought I might be in more serious trouble. Surely everything was on the verge of disappearing entirely. Surely I was about to hit the bathroom floor. I let out that feeble call for the Goat, aka my husband.
And you smiled demurely.
"Hello?" he said through the bathroom door.
He opened it just as the ball of whatever-the-hell-it-was activated my other discharge response. I pulled the liner from the garbage can next to me—a DIY air sickness bag.
So there I was, violently ejecting some unknown poison from both ends. And in between the roaring heaves when I could catch my breath, I punctuated this unfortunate scene with a frail please … don't … leave … me.
As we both know, that ol' Love Goat did not leave me. Neither did you.
That's probably more than enough details to jog your memory, Cupid. Heaven knows it’s about all I can (ahem) stomach.
The expulsions came to an end pretty quickly, as did all that cold perspiration. My breath returned to normal; I didn't pass out. The cloud of potential emergency thankfully passed.
Then came the part you were waiting for.
I cleaned up as best I could, but I was still quaking with residual chills as I crawled back between the covers. With eyes trained on this tender scene, you drew back your bow, and the Goat wrapped himself around my shaking body, so warm and comforting.
With perfect timing, you loosed the arrow.
It sailed silently through the ether, through the food poisoning and thirty years of marriage as well as the previous thirty not-so-great minutes of my physical presentation to my Splendid King.
Maybe you know this: sometimes the word "love" isn't big enough.
"I'm so glad to be in your arms right now," I said and never meant anything more in my life.
Somewhere, perhaps from a perch atop the curtain rod, you sighed. Mission accomplished. And very well at that, Cupid. You are easily the most misunderstood little cherub ever to don a pair of puffy wings, but I see you, baby.
I see you crystal clear.
Love, Erin
