A Return to Romance
Single woman. Not looking, okay, maybe a little, for one to come my way: Must be a man of the same faith. One who encourages her interests including church activities as she encourages his work and life. Must be fun-loving and conversational, but enjoy, yes, long walks and holding hands. If you’re looking for a cook, a 24-hr waitress and a sex toy: don’t bother. If you require tv as a constant drone, move along. If you’re still deeply in love with your former girlfriend or wife, don’t. If you think the world revolves around us, forget it. Not looking, but if one comes my way: Must love my family, as I yours. Must be a man looking for a marriage of friendship, adventure and delight.
On a flight, I buckled up beside one of the most gorgeous men God created. I said a perfunctory hello. He asked the perfunctory question of destination. I was headed to Texas. He was on-route to visit his daughter and stock up her kitchen, since her medical residency filled her schedule. Seemed a good man.
I turned my head away from him to ponder the clouds and did the unexpected. I prayed for this man. I prayed for his family. I prayed for his daughter. Who would have thought it? Prayer is the greatest distraction from airplane turbulence ever.
As the Cumulus flittered into blue sky, I wondered what holding hands with a man like him would feel like. Couples who’d spent decades together would consider fingers sliding past another’s normal. But for those of us who are without spouse or an ‘intended,’ it would be a downright sensual act.
Gracious, we who have been alone for years—age doesn’t matter here—would consider the act heavenly, fitting fingerprints to fingerprints, lifeline to lifeline. Gone would be any concern of our roughened hands, ones that cut and haul firewood, plant herbs and pull Bermuda grass, wash dishes, scrub toilets, work the assembly line, paint walls or canvases, or click keyboards. Gone would be any concern of our post-contagion society. Nothing would matter but the sheer intimacy (oh, yes, that overused word) of holding another’s hand.
The problem is the meeting of the palms, so-to-speak. One would have to get to a place of greeting, vetting, pondering, conversating for a grand holding of hands to occur. Isn’t it weird to live in a world that encourages everyone to be free with our bodies, and skip over the delights of dating and waiting and marriage, and holding hands? In the end, noncommittal sex is akin more to a race car pitstop (how fast can I lube the pipes and change that tire), then romance. And that’s what’s missing. Holding hands is downright romantic.
Romance takes time, and who has time for that? For me, whole seasons of time can pass, and loneliness leaves me alone. Others, a season will slingshot me between the eyes, usually set off by a certain beauty, perhaps a wild goose swooping over the pond as the leaves helix to the ground, making a crunchy path, perfect for a companion and me. Or a summer Saturday spent outside reading when I look over to my chair’s pair, and long for the comfortable quiet I’ve witnessed among couples.
Recently at the beach, a woman so thin I first thought her a teen started her walk in the sand. Then a man roughly my age joined her. Their eyes found each other, then they looked away with a brutal longing to stay together that still aches my heart today. The winds buffeted them physically, but given her diminutive weight, I’d say they were in a spiraling medical situation.
Yet what was magnificent and utterly captivating was their hands. Without effort, with years of connection behind them, with a preeminent loss and life-to-death separation seemingly upon them, their hands joined as if their palms were magnets. They simply fit. No force was able to stop these two from becoming one.
We are missing longevity of relationships, the kind seasoned by ups and downs, the kind spiced with commitment and concern for the other above ourselves.
Perhaps we should be slow to act rather than rushing to the next quick thrill. Perhaps we should cancel our AI doll order and subscription sex and quit bartering with our bodies. Perhaps we shouldn’t be so utterly desperate.
Perhaps we should quit avoiding our loneliness and own up to it. Slow-walk the reasons behind the emotion instead of masking the fear with one-nighters. Perhaps we should be more concerned about growing up, then putting out—becoming mature adults, rather than acting like children with absolutely no self-control. Perhaps, we could go to church and people ourselves with others along this weary road, or line dance without getting wasted or used, or spend our nights helping ourselves and others as we struggle to recover.
What if we got out of ourselves instead of trying to get into one another’s clothing? What if we held hands and not room keys?
What if we became hard-working, good-hearted, romantic people? That would be downright revolutionary. More so, life changing. What if?
Book Quote: “My mother always told me love is your heart’s response to finding someone you admire, someone who makes you want to be a better person—someone you like better than anyone else in the world” (Shari L. Tapscott and Jake Andrews, Forged in Cursed Flames).
