I am not a romantic person. Not from any lack of training in adolescent swoonery--I had my crushes, and no, I will not tell you about them!, nor from any dashed dreams--although that would make a fabulous title for a poorly-written Victorian romance novel. It's simply that romance is too time-consuming and inefficient for the life I choose to live. There are things to do and places to see, so why are you insisting I stroll slowly along this beach? Let's pick up the pace a little, shall we? I am a major disappointment to my husband, who signed onto this marriage with hopes of better things.
Roberto was born with stars in his eyes and romance in his soul. He looked for his one true love for years before settling on me, after very little arm-twisting on my part. He would love nothing more than to dance the night away while whispering sweet nothings into some one's ear --preferably mine. Instead he gets evenings of debate and intense planning, sprinkled with humor and witty repartee if I'm in the mood and not too tired. The closest we come to dancing is when we meet in our narrow hall and have to shuffle around each other. ( I shuffle very precisely, a legacy of years of tap-dancing classes. Roberto took social dance and leaned toward Latin styles. He shuffles with excessive hip action.) Whispered sweet nothings result in requests for q-tips, because they always make me feel like a fly has flown into my ear canal.
He tried for years to convert me. He bought roses when he could afford them, poor guy. I asked him to bring me potted herbs and rose bushes instead. He tried to hold my hand, which was fine until my nose itched (fondling phalanges has that effect on me. It's some sort of coping mechanism, I think) or until I wanted to make a comment which required the full usage of my upper appendages. Hot dates were spent at Home Depot. He gave up in defeat.
It's taken us eleven years, but we've come to an understanding: romance will be defined in strictly non-fairy-tale terms. I watch his carb intake and remind him to exercise. It's my way of saying, "hey--I want you to stick around a while." He cleans the bathrooms and throws away the moldy stuff from the fridge. Better than dragon-slaying and far more hygienic.
Occasionally he does things for me that are the Merkley/Kydd equivalent of "Dearest darling one--you are the light of my life." This week he did one of those things.
I chose to be my own camp director this year--I know: I'm an idiot, that I'm already over-stressed, and that three hours of sleep per day is inadequate, but there are some things that just have to be done!--and scheduled our pre-camp certification for today. Ummmmmmmm, slight problem: our backyard is not a pre-camp-friendly spot--far too many doggie deposits, far too few places to build fires.
Roberto to the rescue! In one week he dug a foundation, poured a concrete slab, and constructed a pre-camp-worthy Dutch-oven space/ fire pit/ barbecue. My hero. Our pre-camp was saved, and my reputation was preserved. (Sadly, the reputation is that I'm an utter goofball, but at least no one had to adjust their concept of me.)
Tell me, isn't that better than a dozen roses any day?
2 p.m.--102 degrees--is it love I smell, or just excessive sweat?
10 p.m.--95 degrees and still going semi-strong!
1 a.m.--almost done!
There is nothing more attractive then a hardworking man.
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