Beyond Measure

History shows us the fate of those who would love beyond measure. Cleopatra loved both Caesar and Mark Anthony and her kingdom slithered out from under her…those love affairs turned out to bite her in the asp. And what of Helen of Troy…an entire army built a ginormous horse for her sake. And then there is poor poor poor Arthur, Gwenivere and Lancelot. One dies by the hand of his own son born by his sister; one becomes a nun in hopes that god will forgive her and the other; well, he just runs naked in the woods mad with his own thoughts of love, lust and loyalty both true and false. And what of the fabled InnKeeper’s Daughter who so loved her Highwayman that she discharged a rifle into her own breast so that her lover may be warned of danger and live?
I have no doubt that they all found quiet pockets of happiness, such happiness that many can only dream to find.

One of my biggest faults is that I do things beyond measure. I’ve done it all my life.

When I was a kid, I would only eat peanut butter and jam sandwiches for lunch. I did that for 6 years. I used to love the way the jam would seep out onto the sides of the bread and make the crusts just bearable to eat. I loved the way bread and peanut butter would fuse to the roof of my mouth and I took special delight in working them loose with my tongue. After six years, the peanut butter scent would make the hairs inside my nostrils curl, the jam was sickly sweet like bad medicine and the crust…well the crust was just simply unbearable. Globs of peanutty buttered bread would hang in my mouth mere nanoseconds so I could get the sandwich over with as fast as possible, barely chewed so I could avoid the taste. Six years is a long time to have peanut butter and jam sandwiches for lunch. It took another 6 years for me to even think about it again.

I love beyond measure as well. I give of myself nearly completely before the first kiss is over. The first time I make love with a man I’m already picking out wedding invitations and worried how many people we could afford to have in the wedding party.

At the beginning of our sixth month together we have moved in together because I have managed to convince him that is it more cost efficient and I begin to wear his clothing 80% of the time…regardless if it fits me or not. I leave the cap off the toothpaste and the door open when I go pee. At then end of our sixth month together I’ve already told my best friend that this might be the one, asked her to be my maid of honour and started walking by bridal salons.

If my boyfriend hasn’t as of yet suspected me of obtuse madness and we make it to a year together, well, that’s when it gets even MORE serious. I tell my Mum that this is it, he’s my soul mate, I cry with her over an obese double mocha low fat capuccino-esque coffee while we argue over inviting relatives I haven’t seen since I was a gleam in my father’s eye.

If we make it to two years I assure my aforementioned best friend as well as my near frantic Mum that my sweetie patootie pants is just simply saving up for the oh-so perfect ring. Yellow gold twisted band with just a smattering of diamonds because after all, I am not a flash girl and rather low maintenance when you come to think of it really.

By our 2nd Valentines Day I’m naming our children and praying that they won’t be allergic to the dog, the cat and the flower garden we’ll eventually get. I am thinking about what colour to paint the nursery and if my aunt still has that cute little red dress that she made for me when I was born. And if I can really cope with being a stay at home mum.

If by 2 ½ years he sill hadn’t popped the big question, I start buying wind up clocks with loud alarms and leave them all over our apartment. I make sure their ticking is audible at all times and set the alarms for every hour on the hour starting from when he gets home until we go to sleep.

By now he either gets the hint that my biological clock is thundering and it’s time to say “I do” followed closely there after by “coo chee coo” or ….he leaves me because he thinks I have a mental disorder that somehow involves wind up clocks, peeing with the door open and wearing his T-shirts until they disintegrate.

With each man that comes into my life I think to myself “The one will be different”. And yet, my evil cycle goes on. I simply love beyond measure.


So what if I love beyond measure, beyond what most think is reasonable? Who are they to judge me the fool? I too find those pockets of happiness and if they are only fleeting, they are still fulfilling.

And if someday I do not end up with the large blue house, the white picket fence with the twins, the new baby and Rover happily chasing Misty through my newly planted rose bed while my husband pulls into the driveway with a bouquet of spring flowers in his lap just to tell me I’m still beautiful, and desirable to him, well; then at least, at the very least, I can look back into my quiet pockets of happiness, pull out a memory, eat a peanut butter and jam sandwich and remember how it feels to love beyond measure.