My husband does so many romantic things for me, it's absurd.

In the words of Jennifer Beals, we hear not complaint but marvel, not burden but blessing: “My husband does so many romantic things for me, it’s absurd.” This is the voice of one who has found herself enveloped not in scarcity, but in abundance—the kind of abundance that overwhelms the heart with gratitude. For what is “absurd” in her saying is not foolishness, but the overwhelming excess of love, poured out not sparingly but like a flood, washing over her life with tenderness.

The ancients too spoke of this abundance. They told of Paris, who showered Helen with gifts and devotion, and of Antony, who, in his passion for Cleopatra, gave away kingdoms for her smile. But where history often shows such gestures twisted by politics and war, Beals speaks of them in their pure form—private acts of affection, gestures repeated not for spectacle but for devotion. To do romantic things is to remind another, again and again, that they are cherished beyond measure.

In truth, human beings hunger for such reminders. Words of love may be spoken once, but if not renewed, they fade like writing on sand. A flower given today, a note left tomorrow, a touch of thoughtfulness when least expected—these are the small embers that keep the flame alive. When Beals calls her husband’s actions “absurd,” she reveals how plentiful they are, how love expressed too often seems beyond reason. Yet it is in that very excess that love’s beauty is revealed.

History offers us luminous examples. Think of Ludwig van Beethoven, who, though tempestuous in spirit, once wrote letters to his “Immortal Beloved,” filled with aching words of devotion. Though we may never know her name, the letters endure as proof of a love that refused silence. Or consider Shah Jahan, who raised the Taj Mahal not merely as a tomb, but as the ultimate romantic gesture—stone carved into testimony that affection can transcend death. Such gestures may be called extravagant, even absurd, yet they remind us that the heart, when moved, cannot be measured by reason.

The deeper meaning of Beals’ words is this: that in love, the logic of the world is overturned. What others call unnecessary, the lover calls essential. What seems “too much” to the world may be “just enough” for the heart. Romantic acts, repeated and abundant, are not wasteful—they are investments in joy, weaving a fabric of trust and intimacy that sustains through trials.

The lesson is clear: do not ration affection. Do not wait for special occasions to show love, nor fear that too many gestures will cheapen it. Love grows not when measured carefully, but when poured out abundantly. If you would keep the bond of the heart alive, let your gestures of care be frequent, surprising, and sincere—even if they appear “absurd” to others.

Therefore, O listener, learn from this testimony: to love greatly is to act generously, to cherish often, to allow yourself the seeming foolishness of endless affection. For when you do so, you will discover what Beals has found—that to live amid absurd abundance of love is to live in joy, and to create a bond that neither time nor hardship can easily undo.