Romance and Romeo

When I was dating, particularly in highschool, I scorned the guys who tripped all over themselves to tell me I was beautiful. I laughed at those earnest boyfriends who attempted to make me feel like a princess by opening doors and gazing longingly into my eyes. I held at arms length the men who told me they loved me. For whatever reason, I felt uncomfortable discussing or displaying any emotional attachments. I even remember asking my friend Amy, "Can't guys just have fun without asking me how I really feel?"



It wasn't that I didn't like kissing or holding hands. It wasn't even that I didn't like the particular boy, or the idea of having a boyfriend. The issue was, I never really felt like I was "in love" with any of them. I loved dating, and having fun. I thought boys were cute and funny, and enjoyed spending time with them. But that was all.



Then came a series of ill-advised, unexceptional relationships in college. While my friends were all in search of their "MRS degree" in addition to their undergraduate work, I was blowing off both school and men with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. It's a wonder that I passed any of my classes. My dating relationships mirrored my school efforts, in that they were meaningless and effortless, a sad testiment to my lack of convictions at the time. The truth is, I was scared.



I knew I was supposed to be growing up, and the thought of being a responsible adult was quite frankly beyond me. I think I intentionally self-destructed for the sheer terror of the reality that awaited me on the other side of academia. The fact that I had any friends after my apparent melt down is a testiment to their grace and friendship.



And just when I had given up all hope of any future, I met my Romeo. He is, incidentally, a man who has never tripped all over himself to tell me I'm beautiful. He doesn't tend to open doors for me unless my hands are full. He almost never gazes longingly into my eyes, and seems quite incapable of asking me what I really feel. He does tell me he loves me every day, but not always in words. He tells me by heating up my car on a cold day before I have to go to work, or by offering to help with dinner when I'm tired. He tells me by spending time with me, whether I'm walking the dog or watching Pride and Prejudice for the 500th time. He tells me by staying with me through nearly 14 years of marriage and counting.

Do I sometimes wish for the romance I once scorned? I'm ashamed to admit that the answer is yes.