If you wait until after Valentines Day to talk about love, the cheesiness factor drops by at least 33 percent per week. At least that’s my hope.

This is something I’m learning about marriage: real love, not hollywood-romantic-comedy-love, happens on a Tuesday when you weren’t paying attention.

It’s not dinners by candlelight; it’s your husband making you a snack when he’s going to the kitchen anyway.

It’s not sunsets on horseback; it’s phone calls on lunchbreak because the sound of his voice is a moment of calm in a busy day.

It’s not a dozen roses delivered to your office – although, that wouldn’t hurt! – it’s laying in bed talking about us when you should’ve been sleeping two hours ago.

It’s a genuine happy-to-see-you hug when he gets home from Home Depot. It’s settling into comfortable patterns in which you both know without talking that he’s going to drive – whether you’re going Michigan or the grocery store.

It’s laughing at something stupid, and continuing a silly conversation far longer than anyone else would permit.

It’s comfortable; it’s safe. It’s falling asleep with your feet touching. It’s kissing with morning breath.

It happens when you weren’t looking, and collectively fills the gaps between anniversaries and mountaintops.