So I went out on a date the other day. We went to Hyde Park; the sun was shining, the birds were singing and we were sitting on a blanket watching the ducks frolicking in the pond. It was tooth-rottingly romantic.
Possibly due to this, my date, who (spoiler alert) has now graduated to being my boyfriend, leant over and gave me a kiss. At that exact moment a rogue duck that we had not noticed, came up behind us and quacked so loudly that we both just about jumped out of our skin.
It could have been my over active imagination but when I turned to the source of the sound, the duck seemed to be sporting a strangely smug expression on its face. I thought to myself, “is it at all possible that my Nonna is an unregistered Animagus?”
I never used to do romance. Of course I watched the odd romantic comedy, but I would usually roll my eyes and click my tongue so often during it that you would have thought I had a tick. If ever I got flowers it was because I had just endured some kind of medical procedure and if by some miracle they came from a man I would usually assume that he was only after one thing… A sandwich. What were you thinking?
Just as a 13-year-old cringes at the sight of their parents (or any “old” person for that matter) being romantic. So did I. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I’d never experienced romance before. In fact my very first ever date (at the Jurassic age of 28) couldn’t have been more so. Again it was out in the sun but this time we were outside a Starbucks on a park bench watching the pigeons. Perhaps bird-watching is the key to true happiness. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure he brought me flowers too.
It’s just that with my self-esteem as low as it was I had convinced myself that “someone like me” would never have someone fancy them anyway. Cynicism became my shield. Any romance that went on around me was pathetic and laughable but only because I didn’t have it myself.
As I gaze around my lounge room at the remnants of not one but three bunches of flowers and munch my way through an entire bag of Cadbury Flakes (all from the same man, I’m not a floozy), it appears that I may have changed my mind. Oh dear God, I have become one of those people.
Funnily enough though it seems I was slightly askew with my definition of romance. It’s not about giving flowers, chocolates or anything else really (although bragging about getting these things is fun). The feeling of being respected enough that he calls when he says he’s going to, considers your opinion and feelings, takes the time to learn (and remember) key things about you and wants you as a part of his life are far better.
Hollywood has it all wrong!