When Grumpy got home from work the other day, I asked him how his coworker’s vacation had been. She’d been so excited because her boyfriend was coming to visit all the way from his home in Paris.
“She’s infatuated,” he grumbled. “He’s all she ever talks about.”
As Valentine’s Day approaches, that got me to thinking about romance. I appreciate that regular readers could argue my husband is all I ever talk about, but as we head into our 41st year of wedded diss, things are certainly different to when were young.
When you’re 21, “growing old together” sounds so beautiful. You imagine yourselves looking exactly the same, save for a few gray hairs. You’ll have time to travel to all those places you always wanted to go to and live in a cottage by the sea. And when you’re really old, you’ll sit on twin rocking chairs holding hands, smiling at each other. He’ll ask, “‘Do you remember when…’ and you’ll reply, ‘Of course. How could I ever forget a single moment we’ve spend together?'”
By the time you’re 61, “growing old together” is more like “growing fat together.” You’re almost unrecognizable, save for a few grey hairs sprouting out of your chin. (By “your,” I mean “mine.”) You may have more time to travel to all those places you always wanted to go to, but who’s going to pay for it? Your cottage by the sea is a townhome in a city that’s covered in snow for a quarter of the year. He’ll ask: “Do you remember when?” before forgetting what he was going to say. You’ll reply: “Be quiet, I’ve only got four percent of my Kindle book left.”
I think a lot of young couples don’t really consider what they’re agreeing to when they state their wedding vows. Take “in sickness and in health,” for example.
I noticed a distinct change in Grumpy around the time of our 25th wedding anniversary. Up until then our time together was largely spent raising our two children. He’d be out at the office all day, while I worked in a school. In the evenings I’d run classes for Weight Watchers. Weekends would be busy running errands. So, although we were technically together, things were very different when we took a five-week vacation by ourselves.
Now don’t get me wrong, the trip itself was wonderful. It’s just that Grumpy was recovering from back surgery as we left which meant I had to handle all the luggage on my own. If we’d have gone to one place it wouldn’t have been too bad, but we traveled around the world with numerous flights getting us from one place to the next. My job was to make sure all the cases made it onto the flight (either in the hold or in overhead bins) and then get them off again afterwards.
Surprisingly, I don’t remember him complaining about his back at all. It was the constant stream of very minor ailments, from a cut finger to cramp in his foot, that really got on my nerves. Did I really need to know all this? The last straw was when he developed a dental emergency while we were in Sydney, Australia. I mean who wants to go to the dentist when they’re on vacation! Certainly not me.
Now this, of course, isn’t to say I’ve had my own (thankfully small) share of minor ailments over the years. But the difference is, I don’t complain about them. When I passed out (not alcohol-related) under a table in a revolving restaurant, I distinctly remember whispering up the left leg of Grumpy’s pants to just leave me there until I felt well enough to sit up. While it may be true that I almost broke his hand when I was in labor with our son, it was only so he could feel a fraction of my pain and thus feel part of the birthing process. You’re welcome.
“I take you, for richer, for poorer.” Well, I can tell you know I’ve tried both and richer is definitely better! When you’re young there’s a romantic notion that living in a tiny apartment will bring you closer together. Closer to the lady who lives below you and hits the ceiling with a broomstick every time you walk across the kitchen floor, more like.
The truth is the older you are, the more space you need. Did we need to downsize to a home that was only 100 foot smaller than our last single-family home? Of course not, but as I write this in my office while Grumpy works downstairs in his, the benefits are tangible.
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Truth is, I’ve never been one of the world’s great romantics. Like other Pisceans in my tribe, my head’s always in the clouds. Rather than seeing hearts and roses, I’m normally looking for the banana peel moment.
Although I may not be romantic, there are things I definitely miss about romance. Who can forget those early days in a relationship when you first realize you’re falling but don’t have to worry you’ll break a hip? The excitement of a first date, like ours, when I fell down the stairs in the movie theater after seeing “Grease” (for the record, I didn’t complain). The warm feeling at the pit of your stomach that never turns into heartburn.
I remember talking to the late Naperville Mayor George Pradel about romance when he and his wife Pat celebrated their 50th anniversary. He said as you age giving your partner a simple foot rub could be seen as romantic. I’m afraid, I’d need to be wearing a medieval gauntlet before I touched either of Grumpy’s feet with a 6-foot pole, but I take his point. Romance might be what brings you together, but it’s love that keeps you from falling apart.
Hilary Decent is a freelance journalist who moved to Naperville from England in 2007 and became a U.S. citizen in 2019.