Back to romance. When I was a kid, Harlequin was the rage. I read them avidly. Every cheezie-laden page packed with the hallmarks of romance. She meets him, dislikes him, starts to change her mind and womp. An old girlfriend shows up. It appears he's done something extremely underhand and her first impression was totally correct. The game’s afoot my friend. She tells him in no uncertain terms that’s it, the end, get out of my life for good, now. But no. In the end, her dislike of him is up-ended by a yearning she can’t shake and before you know it she’s kissing the lips that she once disparaged. (I’m sure romance novels have evolved since then, I’m being simplistic. I was a child, remember? They were pretty PG, as I recall, so get your mind out of the gutter and back to the point. Or your hands out of the fridge, that cake was for tomorrow.)
But really I imagined, in every case, with every possible crush-from-afar, that we would walk in a sunny long-grassed meadow in the height of summer, my long-tressed hair lifted by the breeze whilst he turned his gorgeous black eyes on me and smiled his endless love while our little blonde toddler held our hands and swung. No one prepared me for dates who expected you to sleep with them because they bought you dinner. That one stunned me. So naive, so naive. Set free to meander through life without any real idea of how it worked.
I lived in my imagination, really. When I did meet someone, at long last, and start a relationship, at long last, it didn’t last long. My idea of what we should be and what actually existed was, not to put too fine a point on it, radically different. If he were silent, I imagined he had deep feelings and was musing on things deeply while contemplating the vernacular and the possible usage of proper synonyms to use in his expression of same. (Really, who knew there was another ‘r’ in veRnacular. Thank goodness for Google.) I contemplated his silence with a sympathetic appreciation of his continued angst. I served him meatloaf. Ironed his jeans. Purchased his favourite beer at the liquor outlet. And waited patiently for him to turn one day and say, with gentle certitude, that I was the best thing since sliced bread, he’d figured out the meaning of life, and could he have a meatloaf sandwich for lunch. Toasted.
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