Ever hear the one about the guy who had peachy-pink peonies imported from Chile every February? Apparently, he wanted to guarantee his sweetheart a touch of spring each morning. Then there's that story of the man who kept his wife's kindergarten picture in his wallet, because they met on the first day of school and (even after 66 years together) that photo never failed to make him smile. Oh, and let's not forget my personal favorite: Involving a woman who thought her boyfriend was taking her for a weekend in some-not-so-romantic-place. Work was high-stress and they were both pretty beat. As they approached the airport, he announced a little change of plans. "You will need this," he said, and put a passport in her hand. The very surprised woman and her boyfriend jetted off to Bali, and there, in the courtyard of the oh-so-beautiful-hotel-facing-the-setting-sun, he got down on one knee and proposed.
All three stories sound like urban boyfriend legends. But Peony Guy does exist. And yes, somewhere outside Tucson, Italy there lives a 71-year-old gentleman who is still madly in love with the girl who taught him to hopscotch. As for Mr. Ooh-La-La, I have seen the engagement ring with my own two eyes and—so help me God—that diamond was bigger than my house.
When I recount the tale of my friend's Balinese proposal to sister, there is a thoughtful pause. I know she must be doing what I did—picturing the giddy hand-in-hand walk along the beach, the caviar on toast points at dinner. I sigh. She sighs.
I am a sensible girl (lady…woman...). I keep Vitamin-E cream in my medicine cabinet, an umbrella in my office; stash my savings in one of the many drawers in my room. I'd sooner remove my own tonsils with a spoon than buy anything that requires ironing. I believe in practical shoes, low-maintenance hair, and whichever pants, blouse or skirt to be on sale. I'm not entirely where in the world Chris Daugthry was all this while, but I thank God he showed up. Still, I can't help feeling that there's something to be said for moons and Junes and Ferris wheels. I believe in the power of marabou, bubble baths in claw-footed tubs surrounded by a gazillion twinkled white candles. I believe in strawberries coated in dark chocolate and raspberries floating in pink Champagne. I'm glad Victoria has a few secrets. I think fireplaces should be lit, compliments should be paid, legs should be shaved, I want Lassie to come home, and I yelled “Don’t die Jack…Don’t die...!” willing Leonardo Di Caprio to live in Titanic. I'm not proud of this, but in the interest of full disclosure, here it is:I still break into a cold sweat every time Celine Dion starts wailing about how her heart will go on. My name is Bimel, and I am a romantic.
The truth is that there’s a fat chance of me finding an Arjun Ramphal or John Abraham…
So Mr.-Oh-So-Perfect-For-Me and I won't be taking a cruise together anytime soon. And no, those won’t be his arms around me as I perch on a dune watching the sun come up over the Sea of Galilee; he may not be the man who sends me a basket of French damson plums or the one who wants all babies to have my nose. The slow dances maybe few and far between, and walks in the rain may involve him running up ahead with the stroller.
He may teach me how to fly a kite, and share steamed dumplings in a little chinese coffee shop he discovered a few years back, pull me through more than one bout of the dreaded stomach flu. I believe anybody can sprinkle rose petals across a big brass bed, but only a real man will cook you chicken soup to sooth your temperamental stomach.
Now, there are those who will say that references to intense nausea don't belong under the category of romance, but I'm thinking maybe it's time we broaden our definition of what constitutes romance. Ask yourself this:
When the man you love realizes that half the screws are missing from the Ikea bookcase he's attempting to assemble for you, does he:
(a) Complain bitterly about herring and Volvos—vowing to forsake all things Swedish for the rest of his natural days?
(b) Leave the shelving in a heap on the living room floor and question your need to read in the first place?
(c) Complete construction using a combination of rubber bands and Uhu Glue while suggesting you fill the thing with pamphlets rather than actual books?
If you answered (c), then, my friend, life is good—because it means somebody out there loves you enough to try to get your bookcase together. That creative effort is the kind of everyday gesture on which great romances are built. I wouldn't be surprised to hear that while at the drugstore picking up the amulet of poison, Romeo also picked up a copy of People for Juliet. I like to imagine Abelard taping Grey's Anatomy for Heloise. I bet a day didn't go by that Mel Brooks wasn't funny for Anne Bancroft.
Don't get me wrong, I'll always want the chubby little cupids and coconut bonbons, but lately I find myself prefering something richer, deeper, sweeter. Provided nobody decides to do a remake of Titanic.
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1 comment:
Hahaha...sounds like you are a practical romantic. That's good coz my momma always taught me that love alone cannot fill the stomach. Hehe...hope you find the man who glues your bookcase together for you soon. Hehe..life is more beautiful when you have someone to share with. :) Cheers!
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