Youse all know about Love Languages, right?

According to Wikipedia, The Five Love Languages is a book by Gary Chapman, outlining the five universal ways that people give and receive love in romantic relationships.

According to Oprah Winfrey’s wardrobe stylist, The Five Love Languages will change your life.

When I first heard “love languages” I was like, now you’re speaking my language. Helpless romantic, party of moi! Hobbies include watching reruns of Say Yes to the Dress, making Pinterest boards of engagement rings, and sneaking off to Barnes & Noble’s magazine section to pour over a stack of Brides, Martha Stewart Weddings, and The Knot. I fixated on this notion of being an “expert” at the language of love, true love!

What would my love language be? Whispering sweet nothings by moonlight? Holding hands on a porch swing? I’m so romantically inclined, I wouldn’t be surprised if I was fluent in all the Love Languages!

So I thought about it.

And as it turns out, my love language is… screwing.

But not, like, the sexy kind of screwing.

I mean like, literally, tightening the screws around the house. On door handles, loose hinges, even the toilet seat. Screwing things in. Making tiny repairs. Tidying up. I’m Dobby, the house elf.

Apparently, I express my love through “Acts of Service.” Blleeeeaaaagggghhhhh. BORING! What about TOUCH? WORDS OF AFFIRMATION? Not even QUALITY TIME? Nope, it turns out my devotion only shows when I’m doing something horribly boring and embarrassingly unglamorous. Like carefully packing your comics collection in plastic trash bags to prepare for bedbug fumigation. Mmm. That’s hot. NOT!

And I don’t even think I’m doing “Acts of Service” correctly. In a perfect world, you’d imagine Acts of Service being the humble tasks that ask for no thanks or recognition. But noooooo —— Heaven forfend my Acts of Service go unnoticed! Out of the blue, Sunday morning, you’ll hear me pipe up like this:

“Baaaaabe?”

“Huh? Yeah?”

“Did you notice anything…. different about the door handle from last Wednesday onwards?”

“Um?”

“Like, did it seem, like, less jiggly to you?”

“…”

“???”

“…you tightened the screws, didn’t you?”

“? You’re wel-come! ? ”

Damn, do I wish the screwing was sexier. Really! I wish my love language was something romantic, some, like, grand gesture. I wish I didn’t feel the tender pangs I feel when I’m folding my lover’s shirts fresh from the laundry. I disgust myself when I act like a gross 1950’s Stepford Wives helpmeet. I wish I didn’t reflexively enjoy buying groceries for the people I love, cleaning out their fridge at college (true story, NEVER AGAIN), or tightening the screws on the toilet seat. That’s just how I am. 

But why does it have to be called “Acts of Service” ?  It sounds so…servile! I prefer to think of it as “Acts of Tiny Banal Everyday Heroism!” Imagine me in a mask and cape, my paramour fainting into my arms. “I noticed we were running low on Pepto Bismol,” I whisper into his swooning ear, snatching ahold of the chandelier above our heads, “so I picked some up at Rite Aid  when it was on saaaaaaaaale!” We swing over the fracas below and out the open window, landing safely on the back of my trusty steed, and gallop off into the moonlight!

You wanna judge me for being that chick who”takes care of her man”?! Screw that! My Acts of Service are my Power! Were it not for my Acts of Service, our life (mostly our apartment) would fall apart, one loose hinge at a time. And most importantly, my screwing is what keeps you from sliding around all “Virtual Insanity”-like when you plunk down to drop a deuce!

So you know what? If you scoff at my Acts of Service, you can screw yourself. Literally and figuratively.