My husband and I were supposed to go to Mexico to ring in the new year with our best friends. But, you know, 2020 and covid, and thus, change of plans.
In order to keep our spirits somewhat lifted (and look at something other than our four walls), we headed into the city, about thirty minutes from our home, for a much-needed (quarantined) staycation which involved a lot of walking and eating and that’s about it.
But once we arrived, I immediately got the urge that I needed to be doing something more. Like the expectation was that we were on vacation, and therefore I should be this fun, youthful Stephanie, or perhaps that we as a couple would be swinging from the chandeliers (this was self-imposed pressure, by the way).
So the first night, I ordered a dirty martini at dinner. I tried to force the conversation to flow. I mapped out all the places we’d need to see and visit the next day.
Then I very quickly realized that map doesn’t fit my marriage.
And that’s okay.
Most romances aren’t modeled after Cinderella movies. A relationship is an individual act involving two people. We gotta stop looking to our left and right for the rule book.
So my husband and I sat in our hotel room, a lot. Shawn worked and I read by this magnificent window. He watched a football game on mute while I listened to a trashy reality TV podcast out loud. We had dinner at 6:30 and were home by 8:00, listening to the sounds of the trolleys and traffic below, of people living the kind of life that works best for them.
And by that window, on the second morning, I realized I’m content. My marriage is different from the rendezvous relationship I had in my head, but it’s real. It’s thousands of minute moments that when you add them all together amount to intimacy.
Here with him, I am fully seen.
Tell me something more romantic than that?
