On not being very romantic

I admit to not being a very romantic husband. I tend to forget about anniversaries. As I’ve admitted before, I am an abysmal failure at gift giving. Beyond some occasional spastic twitching, I can’t dance to save my life. I am sometimes oblivious to how she is wearing her hair. When I do finally notice, it is far too long after the fact to score me any points. I think greeting card sentiments are inane. The cat eats any flowers that I bring into the house. My poetry blows chunks. If I were ever to attempt to sing her a love song, she would cover her ears and run screaming from the room in horrible agony.

Still somehow, my wife has managed to tolerate my presence on the other side of her bed for a very long time. On a timeline that would describe our lives, the section where we have been married to each other would be longer than the section where we have not been married to each other. I don’t like to proclaim that I am a “happily married man.” It sounds a bit too pompous, a little too simplistic, a lot too “Seventh Heaven”-ish, for me. I am not even sure that the two of us have ever really fit that sort of classic romantic stereotype of the “happily married couple”. Our life together is most certainly not a springtime shower of wine and roses. More like a daily deluge of diet cola and overdue bills, but it is a life that I could not and would not have with anyone else.

My wife is my trusted partner in all things. She is, without question, the smartest, most capable person I have ever known. I enjoy having a conversation with her more than with anyone else. She can draw the deepest, most honest laughter out of me. My pulse races when she leans against me. When she lays her head on my shoulder, my heart swells beyond what my chest can contain. When she cries, I feel a sudden flash of anger at whatever caused it followed by a sinking feeling of helplessness that I could not have prevented it. When she is sick, I hurt. When she is well again, the world is a brighter place. She can make me more furious than anyone on this planet; but, no matter the reason, I can never stay mad at her. She can shine a piercing light on my most shameful flaws and then forgive them with a sigh. She is the beautiful and gifted reason for our beautiful and gifted children. She is the rule by which I measure my successes and failures. She is my compass when I lose my way. She is the last, the greatest, and the only love of my life.

Unlike the movies, there were no dramatic lightning bolts the first time that I put my arms around her. It was after a Halloween party almost a lifetime ago. I can remember thinking, “I could get used to this”.

I still think that.