So, while we’re on the V-day celebrations, I got thinking on what it takes to really be romantic? What’s my idea of romance? It helps that A has almost forgotten about my blog, so I can write absurd things here without him going all “whaaaaaa???” on me!
For some, romance is 24 carefully-picked, long-stemmed roses. For some, it’s a cute, fuzzy movie with lots of laughs. For others, it’s warm, glowing candles and just the right bit of alcohol. For yet others, heart-shaped chocolates. Large, pop-up greeting cards. Floral fragrances. Puppy-eyed teddies.
For me, it’s been all of the above. At various stages of life, I’ve believed in one or more of these as being the ultimate evidence of love. But right now, it’s changing a wee bit.
Now it’s all about letting me win the petty fights because you know I’m just angry, about calling me in the middle of the day to say nothing in particular, about laughing at my mostly silly, sometimes mean jokes, about not getting fed up of my severe existential angst at the ripe age of 26, about listening to me with a straight face as I narrate my pointless fears and doomsday philosophies, about seeing me eat in the clumsiest fashion meal after meal, but mostly about letting me be the spolit weirdo I tend to be.
Well, I do know someone who fits the bill. Oh wait, I’m married to him.