re: here's what I mean when I say I'm a romantic at heart
After the first time my husband left me, he started telling me what a romantic he was at heart, how intrinsic it was to his identity. Little off-hand comments made me start wondering if, while separated, he was seeing somebody else without telling me. It killed me hearing him go on and on about this epiphany he had about himself that was not extended to me; even when we were in our on and off again periods of trying to reconcile, his gestures seemed spotty and, by the end, I felt like I was intentionally being treated as only a friend - platonic, familial, very dear, but not romantic. What bothered me even more through this was that it felt like there was this underlying implication that I was not romantic and this was a fundamental marker of difference between us.
Meganās post āHereās what I mean when I say Iām a romantic at heartā stirred up a lot of these feelings that I have been wrestling with about my own identity as a romantic person. When I started exploring the asexual spectrum (demisexuality, specifically), I knew that I was not aromantic. I love love. And when I was younger, in undergrad after my angsty teenage years, I definitely looked at the world with a romanticās heart. Throughout my grad school depression, a lot of my romantic priorities fell to the wayside, but itās not that the pang of longing wasnāt stirring in my heart; I just didnāt know how to do it through all the pains I was harboring.
But buying flowers, flirting, going on dates, and wearing lingerie arenāt the only markers of romance in a relationship let alone to the soul. All those elements are important to me, but being a romantic at heart goes deeper than that for me. Itās poignant that Meganās post doesnāt emphasize sex or sensuality, but turns our eye toward whimsy and the intimacy of knowing and being known. These poetic reflections made my heart swell and I wanted to honor the presence of romance in my own life.
This is what I mean when I say Iām a romantic at heart:
That I love the warm, honey glow of brown eyes in golden hour light. The shrieking, cackling, giggling, screaming laughter of children unbridled by self-consciousness. Friends laughing so hard their face scrunches up with tears, breath hitching in stilted gulps, and, in a futile attempt to collect themselves, burst into a second wave forgetting what was even so funny. People humming and singing under their breath. Birds singing to their chicks and lovers on a gray morning lightly showered by rain. Looking up the call number and wandering through the library stacks to find the exact book you wanted, trailing your fingertips across the spines of all the laminated tomes along the way. When you make a gift for someone and then see it displayed on their shelf, desk, or wall the next time you visit. Giving a genuine compliment and seeing someoneās entire face brighten with joy. The weight of my cats curling against my hip, feeling the gentle rise and fall of their tiny lungs pumping oxygen through the chambers of their little hearts, and remembering, āoh yes, this creature is alive and I love them.ā
That I always celebrate the first color shift of an autumn leaf. Follow the flight pattern of a butterfly as it flutters on each gust of wind into petals and stamens. Wish on stars in the sky, pennies in fountains, ladybug landings, blown out birthday candles. Name my most treasured stuffed animals and keep an updated list of their personality traits. Collect rocks, shells, and feathers to remember the places that I have been. Play the same song over and over again so that I can hear that one line that pierces my heart. Sing even though I struggle to understand pitch and rhythm. Whistle because my mom told me once that the sound reminded her of her dad who I never had a chance to meet. Let the pool water envelop me like amniotic fluid, drifting even though I havenāt learned how to swim. Splash in puddles and tilt my head back during a downpour. Remember the media my friends mention and follow-up with them because I want to hear them talk passionately about something that stuck with them so much that they decided to share it with me.
That when I complain about how cold and annoying the snow is, what I really mean is that I want someone to huddle closer to keep me warm and watch our breath fog up the air, snowflakes get caught in their eyelashes, hear the soft crunch underfoot, everything sharp and numb and yet we find a light together. That when I roll my eyes and tell my brothers that their jokes are so annoying what I really mean is that their humor has been such a strong presence in my life that I find myself also bouncing in my seat waiting to say something stupid because I know it would make them laugh and that people know each of us will occasionally roll their eyes at me and say āsometimes I can just tell you all are related.ā That when I say my friendsā daughters look so much like them what I really is that their eyes remind me of all of the joyful memories that we have shared together over the years - of spinning around in the rain and running lines as the Cuckoo Pigeon Sisters in the wooden chairs of our schoolās theatre and ordering extra dessert so we can try all the flavors and letting the waves pull the sand beneath our feet so we sink further into the sea and all the times we hyped up each otherās outfits and makeup and successes celebrating across state lines staying up in our pajamas when we reunite pigging out on hot chips and gossip and itās not so much that I want them to be just like either of you but that I hope with all my heart that they find someone who becomes such a fast friend that they cannot imagine their lives without them either.
That thereās poetry in run-on sentences. Generation old trees with tire swings and bird nests. The Appalachian twang that clings to my momās accent even after living in California for over 60 years. The smallest rose bud in the bush taking its time to bloom. When someone on the bus spots a friend they havenāt seen in so long by complete happenstance and they fall right back into step with one another. And thereās a rhythm in the city not quite iambic pentameter but just as consistent in the whoosh of traffic, clatter and chatter at the line for the neighborhood al pastor, the cooing of pigeons and cawing of crows circling for crumbs to scavenge, one dog barks sets off another and another like dominos, and sometimes I pause the track playing through my headphones to hear it, to be in it, because this is and has always been my home.
That I can cry over just about any of these things and I think thatās one of the most beautiful things about me. My heart is my most exercised muscle. It loves big, loud, and hard. It doesnāt know how to beat otherwise.