When I first met the man who would become my Spousal Unit, I told him that I had a dilemma. I had taken down a fence at my house, but the garbage men wouldn’t carry it away unless it was cut up into teeny tiny pieces. I didn’t have any way of doing that, because I didn’t get “custody” of the hand tools in my divorce. He came to my rescue: he loaned me his chainsaw.

Now, I know you are all thinking, “Why didn’t he get in there and cut it up for you?” Actually, he paid me a bigger compliment. I thought that this was the most romantic thing a man had ever done. He knew I was a strong and independent woman, and he loaned me that chainsaw with no instructions. He did not condescend to me. He assumed that I was intelligent enough to figure it out on my own. And, he was right. I’m a hellcat with a chainsaw, so if you ever need a tree cut down you can give me a call. This was the beginning of the Texas Chainsaw Romance.

There is a writing contest going on at Tea Time Ramblings. She wants you to enter a romantic post, and the deadline is fast approaching. I’ve been thinking on it, but am finding it difficult to write a post about “romance” in the sense that Mrs. TeaMouse wants. “Romance” doesn’t mean the same thing to me now that it did when I was young.

Once upon a time, when I was a little girl (we are talking about a loooong time ago), I was spoon fed the classic fairy tales. Those always had a knight in shining armor to save the helpless damsel in distress, or a handsome prince to come and carry the heroine away to be his queen. I saw movies where handsome hunks paid elaborate and imaginative courtship, proposed to lovely leading ladies in most ingenious ways, and lived happily ever after.

I grew up believing that my romantic prince would shower me with gifts, read poetry to me, and that I would live in the lap of luxury. I thought I’d get those gifts that are shown on television commercials. You know the ones I mean. The expensive diamond necklaces and vivid red roses. That’s how advertisers want us to believe that a man can show he cares. And, that’s what I did believe—-once upon a time.

Unfortunately, the little boys back then didn’t get the same messages. Most boys were taught to be “manly men” and that didn’t always include being romantic. It meant hiding their emotions, because boys aren’t supposed to be emotional. Some men are romantics, I know that, and if you found one of those, you are one of the fortunate few. But it’s not the norm. More often they swagger in just like John Wayne taught them in the movies. More often, a man doesn’t “get” a woman’s emotional needs. Men don’t think like women do, and that’s OK. Women don’t think like men either.

In real life, the queen doesn’t get to sit on her butt and eat bonbons while her king brings her gifts and provides for every need. In the real world, practicality rules. Diamonds are expensive, and can really only be worn on special occasions. They are nice, but a roof over the head is nicer and the price of one of those necklaces would pay the mortgage for a month or two. Roses are lovely, but they are dead inside of a week. Those things don’t spell “R.O.M.A.N.C.E.” to me. I don’t even care about them much, although I do wish that first Valentine’s Day with my future Sweet Spousal Unit had been a teensy bit different.

He called to ask if he could take me out to eat. “I’d love to go,” I said. “Are you going to make reservations?” “Nah,” he said. “We don’t need no stinkin’ reservations.” “OKAaay,” I said in my most skeptical tone.

On Valentine’s Day, he drove to my house from his town far away with a lovely card for me. We started driving around to find a restaurant. At Olive Garden, the parking lot was overflowing. People were lined up out the door. We saw the same thing at Johnny Carino’s, and Saltgrass Steakhouse, and every other single restaurant in town. Finally, we saw a restaurant that didn’t have much business! It was Hooter’s. No, we didn’t eat at Hooter’s! He might have enjoyed it, but I don’t have the glands to appreciate it. I don’t know where we ate.

In fact, I don’t remember much else about that Valentine’s Day. It must not have mattered, because I married him anyway, and I’ll stick by him through thick and thin. Is he “romantic” in that classical way? Not really. He does spend hours pouring over the racks at Hallmark to find a card that is just right (which is more than I will do). But, as I said, my definition of romance has changed drastically.

My dictionary says that “romance” is “a love affair…characterized by ideal of purity and devotion, strong ardor, etc.” Later in the definition, it says that it is “an extravagant or fanciful falsehood.” I think the latter part of the definition is more apt.

I consider it an act of great devotion when my Sweet Spousal Unit, exhausted from his own day of work, takes the time to rub my poor aching feet that have swollen up like sausages. It must be love, if he will mess with my stinky feet! When a statue, that meant very much to me, was blown over by a storm and broken, I was so devastated I couldn’t go look at it. My SSU quietly put it aside and mended it like new, even though he had many other projects going on. He can repair anything—and he does.

When I get caught up in blogging, I forget about everything else. I step away from the computer to find that the dishes have been magically done(even if it is my turn) and a load of my laundry has been washed and put away. When I have problems on the computer, he jumps right in to save me. He will even dish up ice cream in the evenings and serve it to me. And, most importantly, when I start talking about Technorati ranking, stats, links, and posts (about which he knows nothing) he actually listens. Folks, that’s true love.

My man is not classically romantic. I wouldn’t have him any other way. Romance? We don’t need no stinkin’ romance. And, we will live happily ever after! I just wish I’d found him thirty-five years sooner (but he was in Junior High at the time, and I would have been arrested for misconduct with a minor!).

.

Technorati Tags: Romance, writing contest