I'm not a romantic. The fact is, my life could hardly be compared to a romance novel. My life falls more along the lines of the absurdist play The Bald Soprano: nonsensical and unscripted and bizarre.
[I must do an aside here. I'm also not an intellectual or a theatrical snob. My knowledge of Eugene Ionesco's play hinges on my days in high school theatre. I directed this one act play as part of an advanced theatre class. Having no skills, really, this was the perfect play to "direct." Now, back to my previously scheduled post.]
I do not fall for romance easily. Displays of affection in the form of little ditties or floral arrangements or heart-shaped pendant diamonds will likely lead to scoffing on my part. I would not intend to be caught rolling my eyes or smothering a giggle, but I would likely be busted for it.
I am blessed, however, with a man who finds his way into my heart most days by making romantic gestures of a decidedly non-romantic nature. This British husband of mine, raised in the frozen tundra of Manchester, England, is rarely cold. Being of hearty British stock, my children fail to recognize cold either. Woe is me, then, the lone frozen one in the house, derided by her children on numerous occasions for my whining of the chill.
Rather than ridicule me for my weakness, Pete has found a way to bring romance into our relationship with gestures which warm my heart, among other body parts. He stokes the fire in our wood stove to tremendous heat-blowing levels. He turns on the electric blanket 15 minutes before I plan to plop down on the couch next to him. He warms my icicle hands with his own blazing heated ones, never complaining of his own dropping temperature as mine in turn rises. He surprises me when I get into bed and discover a hot water bottle blazing on my side. He lets me put my near-white toes onto his delightfully warm feet without complaint (unless I ruin it by tickling his feet.) He knows that sexy undergarments won't get me (or him) anything, and he insists on buying my Christmas present of long underwear at an REI or a similar store so he can get the truly good kind.
I think I'm getting warmer to this whole romance notion.
[Written for Scribbit's December Write-Away contest. Michelle, I know I'm not in Alaska, but I feel your cold.]