Entry #686004, added on 02-01-10 @ 10:37 am EST
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| passionflower | Entry #686004 |
Why aren't you passionate?!
I may have yelled this at him while washing dishes the other day. He may have looked completely surprised, followed by annoyed.
I am!, he responded flatly.
You and I have different definitions of that word, and sorry, but you're not.
Why I would choose to start this conversation while scrubbing a frying pan is beyond me. Sometimes, an opportunity presents itself and you take it.
I get that he had no idea what I was talking about, mostly because I have a pretty good poker face and my grievances seldom make themselves evident until I decide to voice them, but still, to say he considers himself a passionate person? Clearly, he has issues. Of course, so do I.
Also, I have to admit that the man is passionate, a good lot of the time, it's just that it isn't the way it used to be, and as it turns out, I am holding him to a higher standard than anyone else before him. This may not be fair, but love generally isn't fair to begin with. He said that I always have a wall up around me, and I denied this accusation, because if there's a wall, I didn't build it, at least, not intentionally. I guess it's an involuntary, protective layer, rather than a wall, but I don't consciously have it up. Like everyone else, I've experienced some adversity in my life, so the layer is there to absorb the impact. I thought about what he was saying, and then I called 'malarky'. Look, I'd said, you know what I need from you. I'm a woman. We need the effort. We need to not feel expendable. To this he shook his head, because, obviously, I'm like all the other women out there, the nagging, insecure ones who need to know everyday just how much their men love them. Oh, please. Men cry too, and in my experience it tends to be when their women walk out the door.
I'm aware of how ridiculous this whole exchange was. I just can't help that I am warped by years of trying to figure out the boys I share kisses with. I get that one can never rest completely easy with their respective partner because things happen, but that doesn't stop me from wanting the reassurance. I want to know I can count on him, forever. I want to feel beautiful and desirable because one look from him tells me I am.
Hi, my name is Tara and I'm a hopeless romantic.
Hi, Tara.
I dream of things like mad, sweaty love in fields of flowers or trails of rose petals leading to my bed. I think about drinking wine while languishing in the bathtub or hearing some kind of impassioned speech over candlelight about how wonderful and important I am. I don't dream about white dresses and veils, anymore. There's something kind of disingenuine about all that jazz, at least, some of the time. I like the idea of intimacy and love in its purest form over receiving lines and crooked wedding cakes. I don't know if this is a symptom of resignation or a sign of maturity. I refuse to ask for any of this, either, and only find value in impulsive displays of raw emotion. I'm a sucker for men who write poems or who play instruments because it appeals to the romantic ideals inside. I suppose I'm looking to be inspired on a fairly consistent basis.
So, when I endure night after night of falling asleep because I'm exhausted by endless waves of monotony, I get testy. I become enraged. I become...irrational. Then, I get frustrated with myself for being so ridiculously insecure and self-obsessed, which is not exactly sexy, and I verge on all-out hysterics because he doesn't get my clues, doesn't sense my mood and the inherent danger it brings with it, and because he has the audacity to look at me like I'm crazy while I make accusations toward him while holding a wet sponge. Why couldn't he just avoid the whole mess by paying attention to the situation from the beginning?
All weekend, I seethed. He suggested we take a walk by the lakeshore, despite it being -13 degrees outside, not counting the windchill, and I still bubbled. We watched 'Dexter' together, under a blanket while sipping hot tea, and I was still dragonlady. Yesterday, I hurled myself into bed for a nap because I have contracted my wee one's cold and because I was basically tired of myself and I still woke up feeling like I had taken a bath in lemon juice and vinegar. It was only when I was in bed last night, almost completely asleep, when he came in and tickled my toes and cuddled up with me that all the anger went away. I warmed him, he said, because he'd been so cold, and he needed me. I interpreted it in a couple of ways but both were favourable. And, that's all it took. I fell asleep, purring.
It doesn't have to be so hard.
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