As I say the word "romance," feel free to picture me with my head cocked to one side, like a dog listening to a high-pitched sound coming out of a squeaky toy.
If you were sitting here with me right now, I'd throw a Seinfeld quote your way just because that is the way in which my media-sodden brain works. I picture what Elaine looks like when she is tilting her head and curling her lip and saying, "Grace?"
Of course, if you were sitting here with me right now at my dining room table, I'd probably have to go put on some pants, so it might be better that you are there and I am here.
My point, and I do have one, is that I miss romance too, sometimes. This morning I read an excellent post from the always entertaining and oftentimes seductive Mr. Condescending. Seriously, go look at his blog and try not to get a little turned-on by all of those artsy pictures of sexy people doing sexy things. But, go read it later, ok? I'm not finished with you yet.
Mr. C asked his readers to share their most romantic memory, and I started racking my brain because it has been a while since I've had anything truly romantic happen in my life. I'm not talking about sex, because heck, I am married and I do think sex ("Coitus. The physical act of love.") is indeed a "zesty enterprise." I'm not even talking about lust, an emotion with which I am also intimately familiar (but don't tell my husband). Ha ha.
I'm talking about romance. I'm talking about bodice-ripping, breath-taking, starry-eyed, endorphin-producing romance.
Obviously, I love my husband and would lay down my life to save him from an oncoming bus if need be, but over the course of our long relationship our feelings have morphed and shifted into something much different, and much deeper, than the romantic lovey-dovey shmoopy phase. We've been in a committed, monogamous relationship for almost 13 years, married for just shy of 8 of those. In that time we've partied heartily together, moved together, linked ourselves financially numerous times, survived cancer together, survived the deaths of loved ones, survived two pregnancies and births together, and somehow, somehow... we are surviving raising our children together.
It's hard to feel romantic when you're sleeping in shifts and every restaurant visit wraps up with that moment when you have to get the check RIGHT EFFING NOW or risk an embarrassing toddler melt-down. It's hard to be romantic when your day to day conversations are about work, kids, and the "business" part of your lives instead of the fun stuff.
We love each other. We are affectionate to each other. We get each other and never really fight. However, it would be nice to be swept off my feet once in a while, and I'm sure he feels the same way. In fact, I made him read this post earlier today, before I put it up (for the first time - yes, I chickened out and deleted it once already), and he agreed that I spoke the truth, but then declared that he obviously needs to step up his game a bit. Heh.
I have hope that someday, when our children don't need us quite so much and we're able to have a conversation without being interrupted twenty times by a child asking us where his light saber is, we will get some kind of second-wind in the romance department. Eventually, when the little attention-vacuums leave the nest, you rekindle the spark and have some sort of second honeymoon phase. Right?
I'm choosing to believe that that is exactly the case. Until then, we are partners in poopy diapers, comrades in crappy kid attitudes, and soldiers in the war against insanity that rages in our household every day.