Sunday, February 14, 2010
Romance for dummies
It's Valentine's Day night. I'm blogging. My husband is sitting in front of the dying fire flipping through what I like to call "builder's porn." It's a tool catalog.
We spent most of the weekend sighing deeply in Paris, the city of lights, the most romantic city in the world, a city that can make the most monogamous of women imagine what it might be like to have a secret rendezvous with some mysterious, silky-haired, strong jawed man in one of the dozens of inviting, dimly- lit, romantic, back-alley cafe's she passes as she carries her snotty nosed, whining, tired four-year-old on her back.
Oh yes, that sighing, that was exasperation, not passion.
That was frustration, not stimulation.
That was our maxed out patience asking us, "What were you expecting, bringing a constipated four-year-old to Paris on the coldest weekend of the winter?" Duh.
Undaunted, I ventured out alone one late afternoon to explore and renew and cool down. While exploring, I somehow ended up in the underwear section of H&M-- I know, not very romantic but they were trying-- staring at a rack of ridiculous, totally uncomfortable- looking bras and panties and wondering if...... just if.... I could pull it off. And did I really want to. And, if I wanted to, where and when, and how?
In the end I settled for some bottoms only, not even frilly, but black and kind- of- sexy -boy-shorts style. See, I'm hopeless.
On my way back home I stopped into this specialty chocolate shop and bought some chocolate and one of the most delicious, hedonistic, cups of hot chocolate I have ever ingested. It was, exactly as described in Polar Express, like a melted chocolate bar.
Anyways, I put my new underwear on this morning, wondering if they might make me at least feel as if I have a romantic bone in my body. But no, all I felt, after walking several blocks through Paris, was bunchy fabric stuck between my cheeks. Yes I was that American woman in Paris, stopping in the middle of the Place de l'Opera, to pick her wedgie. Honestly, who, over 40, buys underwear at H&M?
Leaving Paris on the train I stared at my husband, who with Isla on his lap, sticking her fingers up his nose, was still sighing deeply, dying to get this little overpriced mini-vacation over and done with. I scribbled out a little love poem in my journal, something to the tune of
I will never tire of your face
your profile (even with little fingers up your nose)
Thank you for being my Valentine
Then I folded it up tiny and passed it to him. He opened, it, read it, smiled, and said
Then, before I could even sit back and bask in the tiniest glimmer of weary, downtrodden romance, he said,
You've got spinach in your teeth.
More about husbands and wives in Paris here at BabyCenter.