So. I’m doing this, not Diana. It’s not a romantic post; it’s a rant. February 14th is meant to be the most romantic day of the year. Or is that mostly the commercial hype of all the businesses hawking a sale-able anything remotely connected to the concept: flowers, music, chocolate, candles and wine, dinner reservations, and consumable underwear.
Couples in good standing should also heed the unspoken mandate to watch a romantic movie together; these are generally classified under the “chick-flick” genre and when inflicted on your average bloke, are received as something between Chinese water torture and watching fifty shades of grey paint dry.
I’m kind of on their side, with some flicks that have been popularly considered the last word in romantic. Why are silly movies like The Bridges of Madison County and Titanic touted as great love stories? The whole dazzling relationship ran its course in let’s see, how many hours? Francesca Johnson didn’t have time to find out how loudly Robert Kincaid could snore after one too many, or how seldom he changed his underwear once the glow was gone. Jack ended his young life under the chilly waves of the mid Atlantic before he discovered just how spoiled a rich brat like Rose could really be.
Anybody can be in love with anybody, for a few breathless days or a single hot sheet weekend.
Try keeping it up, people. Have some stamina. Spend thirty or forty years together, get through medical crises and unemployment and farting in bed and fighting over bank accounts, and then survive the most enormous of marital challenges: Raise a few kids together and send them off into the world as fairly decent and independent human beings. Do all that, and you still can’t wait to tell him about your day, and his eyes still light up when you walk in the room?
My friends, THAT is romantic.
Anybody agree with me? Or not agree? Come on back.