On being romantic.
In the recent past, on more than one occasion, I have been called “unromantic” by members of the opposite sex. Now, I’ve never been a girl who doodled hearts in her notebook or made a wedding binder, so I know that in terms of my gender, I’m in the bottom percentiles. But to hear such comments from the opposite sex as well has startled me a bit.
Because even though I never practiced signing my name with his last, or started a “rehearsal dinner idea” Pinterest board, I never thought of myself as “unromantic.” Overly romantic, no, but not romantic, well, not that either. I think my problem (if you can call being unromantic a problem), is I think reality is romantic.
I don’t think first kisses in rose gardens, or ice-skating dates, or long walks in Central Park, or proposals on hot air balloons, or weddings in exotic places, or perfectly framed family photos, or sitting on front porch swings together in old age are particularly romantic. That’s not to say I don’t like and want each of those things (except for the hot air balloon proposal, but that’s another story entirely), but there’s nothing about them, to me, that says romance. They are just events. Things that can or can not happen. If you want them and can make them a part of your reality, that’s great. But if you can’t, it doesn’t mean you’ve failed. It just means that to you, they weren’t real. And there’s nothing fake that’s romantic.
I think my problem is I think reality is romantic. I think first kisses in cars, or dates running errands, or long walks through a super market, or proposals on the couch, or weddings in the pretty church down the street, or embarrassing family photos, or old age spent in a nursing home together is romantic. They are romantic because they are real. They are romantic because they mean I’m here for real life. Not for the pre-planned perfection, but for the spontaneous imperfection that comes from just being there. To me, romance is just being there.
I think my problem is I think reality is romantic.
