As seen in February issue of Darwin Life Magazine)
I used to be a hopeless romantic. Funny how those two words get used together all the time, like if you’re romantic, then you have no hope. If you ask me, romance by definition is all about hope.
Her: I hope he surprises me with dinner then a walk along a moonlit beach. I hope he kisses me and tells me he loves me. I hope he proposes with champagne, roses and a huge diamond.
Him: I hope those things aren’t chicken fillets. I hope she’s wearing sexy lingerie. I hope she puts out after watching 2 hours of shirtless Matthew McConaughey.
Once when I worked behind a cosmetic counter in a department store, my boyfriend had a different florist deliver a single red rose to me every half hour for my birthday. It made me look popular, admired and possibly like a bit of a slut. Most importantly, it made me swoon.
I was twenty. I had no damn worries in life. All I hoped for back then were good times and being adored, so impractical romantic gestures were much appreciated.
As we age, and life hands us more stress and responsibility, the things we hope for change.
I no longer hope my husband will surprise me with flowers and a romantic dinner. Now I just hope he WON’T surprise me with a stinky fart in bed: A fragrance that sometimes lasts longer than a vase full of roses.
With Valentine’s Day this month, romantic thoughts are on the minds of couples everywhere. Avoid being hopeless. True romance comes from knowing what your lover hopes for. Here’s what I NOW hope for and find romantic. I hope it helps.
TURN ME ON: Let me lie on the couch and watch my crappy shows WITHOUT PROTEST. Hand over the remote and supply me with a comfortable pair of tracky-dacks. If I start wilting like a plant, bring me ice-cream.
FEED ME: Don’t take me out to dinner to sip champagne and eat ‘tongue food,’ like oysters or strawberries. Bring me a ginormous plate of mixed cheese, or perhaps just a funnel that you can pour pancakes and maple syrup in.
CODDLE ME: Let me whine a lot. Allow me to bitch for five minutes when you bring home the wrong type of yoghurt. Pretend you think this is a legitimate problem. In fact ALL my problems are legitimate, including my throat ‘kind of hurts’ and ‘I need a facial.’
COMPLIMENT ME: You don’t need to tell me I’m beautiful. I mean, you CAN, but the real gesture is when you continue to like me when I’m in-between waxes. So far in-between it looks like I have Cher in a headlock. Also, double points if you still think I’m beautiful wearing skanky 3 year old cotton underpants with no elastic.
SHOWER ME: Buying jewelry or perfume is pointless because lets be honest, unless I wrote it down I’ll probably have to swap it. Use the money to hire a house cleaner.
SLEEP WITH ME: Give me personal space when I’m sleeping next to you. It’s not that I don’t want you there; it’s just that I enjoy sprawling my legs wherever the hell they want to go.
Clearly, all of the above is romance novel worthy stuff… right?
I’m not even joking. I can just see the cover of my book now… Buxom brunette reclined across a velvet chaise lounge in trackies. Remote in one hand, wedge of camembert in the other. And in the background, standing to attention in a loin cloth… would be Fabio.
Doing my ironing.