Romance is a funny thing.
When you first start dating everything is hot and heavy. You’re both on your best behaviour; peacocking, charming and wooing your way through your days. I remember when Ollie and I just started dating I had to leave for a 5 week trip to Europe I had planned with a bestie. When we arrived in Paris, our first stop, and finally got to the hotel after dragging our luggage many blocks; I was surprised with flowers, champagne and a note from Ollie telling me to enjoy my trip. That won my heart. I told him I loved him for the first time that night while we were over 9,000 miles apart. Since then the romance in our relationship has kind of waned, I mean he did set himself up with a pretty hard act to follow. But it doesn’t really bother me; the lavish, love-dovey amorous acts have been replaced with real, visceral and raw human connection.
Shit gets real when you move in together and I mean you hear real shits, real farts and real belching. You are no longer mythical creatures with no stink holes; you’re dirty domestic living buddies. Obviously these unrefined, vulgar acts aren’t sexy and they take their toll on your relationship, and the passion felt. As does living with someone when you have little to no personal space. You’re privy to unattractive mood swings, sulking, and tantrums; my most recent involved a burnt blouse, me punching the ironing board and a broken shoe strap. I’m sure Ollie found this childish hissy fit so very appealing.
To counter the mundanity and keep the all-important spark alive, Ollie and I decided to do a date night every week. This routine was rapidly retired; it was too hard to match schedules and it’s so much cheaper to wine and dine at home. I think the last date night we had was at bloody Sexpo and it wasn’t exactly idyllic. We were surrounded by third party genitalia, hard core westie bogans, a plethora of freakish fleshlights and big ol’ plastic dicks.
Like every girl I still kind of want the tokenistic, over-the-top, John Cusack holding a boom box at my window, quixotic style gesture. I want to tell Ollie I had a bad day and come home to flowers, wine and a season of Geordie Shore at the ready. But I’ve come to realise this stuff is kind of unrealistic, and really does belong in those fictional rom coms. You’re in a relationship with another human being who is also going through their own shit, who probably doesn’t have time to focus solely on you and pre-empt your every desire. So, these days I’m pretty easy to please. I was over the moon recently when I arrived home after working late; to a kebab in a box and a bottle of rosé. I know, Casanova eat your heart out.
For me true romance happens in the bedroom, sex of course, but those intimate moments we share in the pitch black, heads on the pillow, just us two. Chatting openly, vulnerably as we drift off to sleep, interconnected together like tessellating shapes. If all that is tracking fine, I’m a happy lady and don’t need to be doted on the daily. Having a genuine chat with Ol and his undivided attention when I’m telling a story beats crappy heart-shaped candy any day.
And that’s why they call it unconditional love.
