Byline: Who knew my life’s peculiar love affair with storytelling wasn’t limited to old letters in archives but spilled into the quirks that define me today?

The Gateway Obsession: Love Letters and the Lives Behind Them

It started innocently enough, like most obsessions do. During my first job as an archivist at the Montgomery Museum, I found myself regularly diving into the private lives of total strangers—through their letters. Love letters, specifically. Thick, yellowing paper scented by decades gone by, penned in looping script so beautiful it could’ve walked straight off the set of Bridgerton.

I was supposed to be cataloging, sure, but how do you not pause while stumbling across a 1930s declaration of devotion that includes phrases like, “I ache for the shadow of your touch”? (No shade to modern texting, but no one’s sending THIS level of poetry via emoji.) These weren’t just notes—they were time machines. I felt like a voyeur and a romantic detective simultaneously. The stories behind the paper stole my heart before the ink even dried (okay, decades before it dried).

Digging into people’s hearts and lives this way showed me something else: love, at its most honest and awkward, is deeply relatable. We’re all just trying to figure each other out—whether you’re scribbling on paper in 1935 or sending a somewhat regrettable 2 a.m. “U up?” text in 2023.

Southern Storytelling (or: The Hill I’ll Die On)

Like every Southern kid worth their weight in buttermilk biscuits, I grew up on front porch stories. My mama’s cousins could stretch a 30-second moment into a 20-minute saga, complete with conspiracy-level dramatics and facial expressions that deserved Oscars.

This shaped me in ways I didn’t appreciate until much later. I realized storytelling wasn’t just a family pastime—it was a way to connect with people. And maybe that’s the other reason I’m so helplessly obsessed with narratives, from historical museum artifacts to overanalyzed rom-coms. Look at Sweet Home Alabama, for instance. Why does Reese Witherspoon’s character STILL move back to a man who once kissed her in a lightning storm? Because we’re all suckers for history-tangled connections—and oof, don’t even get me started on how much I can relate to choosing between old worlds and new dreams.

This urgency to collect and connect—whether it’s people or their stories—might explain why, when other women my age were collecting vinyl records, I was amassing one of the most highly specific compulsions ever: church fans.

The Church Fan Chronicles

Yes, you read that right. Sweet church fans—the ones with faded portraits of Jesus or black-and-white wooden steeples printed on the front, often handed out in sweltering Baptist sanctuaries that didn’t believe in air conditioning. I have hundreds of them today. They’re hung up around my house as both decor and, let’s be real, functional tools for when my AC also decides to get Biblical.

They’re an obsession rooted in nostalgia, yes, but also in humor. How so? Anyone from the South—or who’s spent five minutes on a church pew—knows that a hand fan was less a relief from the heat and more a social shade-thrower. Who needs words when Aunt Earlene shoots you a swish of that fan after you wore a “too modern” dress to the cookout?

Even now, I like to think of these fans as my conversation starters with guests. “Wait. Is that Elvis on a church fan?” Yep. A 1987 Elvis fan from a fundraising picnic. You end up sharing a hundred tiny stories just by holding one.

Duke’s Mayo and the Fine Line Between Love and Mania

Full disclosure: I bleed Duke’s mayonnaise. Anyone who’s ever loved—or argued with—a Southerner knows we’re borderline militant about certain foods, and mayo is one of them. It’s no secret you’ll be politely judged in any Alabama kitchen if you show up championing Hellmann’s.

But for me, Duke’s became less about its role in deviled eggs and more of a personal philosophy. It showed me how preferences shape everything—from our comfort foods to our relationships. Don’t we all have our own version of Duke’s in the dating world? Every relationship teaches us what we will—or simply won’t—compromise on. Are you the kind of person who’s cool with someone squeezing toothpaste from the middle? Or does that man better come into your kitchen ready to swear allegiance to the proper mayo before y’all can discuss anything beyond appetizers? Know thyself, honey.

The Romance of Quirks

Here’s the bigger picture: If love letters, Southern storytelling, church fans, or Duke’s-filled sandwiches tell us anything, it’s that quirks matter. The things we obsess over—whether a collection, a ritual, or a preference—aren’t things to hide or apologize for. They’re parts of the mosaic that make us lovable, interesting, and our own kind of irresistible.

Dating, too, is often like uncovering someone else’s obsessions. Maybe they geek out over Rick Riordan books well into their 30s or have an alarming addiction to sampling every craft soda in the continental U.S. (Also me, by the way. Ginger beer recommendations welcomed!) Discovering someone’s quirks is a little like finding a box of old love letters—it’s an invitation to understand who they are beneath the surface.

Taking My Quirky Obsessions Into Love

Ask anyone in my life, and they’ll tell you this: I don’t enter relationships casually. For one, breaking up is the worst, and two, I completely invest once I’m all in. The quirks I bring with me—devotion to vintage keepsakes, a healthy respect for nostalgia, and a tendency to get lost in stories—mean you’re dating someone who asks a lot of questions and saves receipts—not because I’m calculating, but because the details mean I care.

Let me tell you: I’ve learned to spot when quirks align harmoniously. For every museum exhibit vibe I bring, I need someone who’s fine not rushing me as I catalogue artifacts from Saturday mornings to date nights. Quirks, when respected, just deepen that bond. Case in point: My last boyfriend had a thing about reading restaurant menus even after dinner was already over, which initially annoyed me (uh, what are we still poring over the desserts for?!) but eventually became another curiosity I couldn’t help but adore.

My Takeaway for You

I know this much: Never, ever flatten yourself into someone else’s idea of a perfect partner. The weirdest parts of who you are—the stuff you might worry will make you undateable—are usually the parts that tell the best stories. Lean into them. Lead with them. You don’t need to find 1930s love letters or hoard church fans like I do (although, hey, I can set you up with a starter collection). Whatever it is that makes you unique, rest assured: It’s your quirks—and your willingness to celebrate them—that’ll draw in the people worth keeping.

Obsessions, no matter how small or specific, are simply proof that you’re uniquely you. Never downplay that magic.