I know roses are the thing. It’s the gesture. I get it. I don’t, but I do. Roses. Love. Romanticism. Mmmmmhm. Original. Yes. Thank you. Mind you, I have zero vases, but whatever.
It is my major character defect that I am just not particularly romantic. Romance, as we understand it, ain’t for everybody, and it ain’t really for any of the bodies that I’d like to involve myself with.
“But why not?” a friend of asked me months after his partner cheated on him and left him with an incurable disease. No shade. I only say that to say romanticism will have you out here fucked up and being fucked up ain’t really my thing, personally, but don’t listen to me. Live your best life.
I’m practical to a fault, perhaps. So I argue that it isn’t that I’m NOT romantic, but I think I’m differently romantic. I saw an older gay couple at the bookstore I work at. They seemed to be closer to 50. Like if I mentioned Grindr to them, I’m sure they’d probably think it came from Crate and Barrel.
Anyway, one of the men approaches the counter with his book, and I want to say it was David Sedaris book, but my mind could be making that detail up. Before I could finish ringing it and stating the total, his partner already had his wallet out and credit card ready for me to swipe.
That shit was sexy.
Fuck am I supposed to do with some roses?
Pay for my damn books – let me learn something new with your money. That’s my kinda romance. I’m tired of not having the money to not buy every fucking book I want because I have to be responsible an shit.
Keep all the fancy gestures to yourself. I’m not too worried about that. Save it for someone new to this love thing, someone who comes from a family of folks who didn’t tell ’em they deserved to be loved, and now they start crying anytime someone remembers their birthday or what song was playing that one night.
Please. Save yourself the embarrassment, spare me your romance. It’s just not my thing.
My thing is sneaking wine in water bottles into the movie theater. That’s my thing – it’s not a sexy thing, but it’s my thing.
My thing is Shel Silverstien poems and siting on my momma’s screened in patio ’cause you can hear the frogs clear when the sun sets.
My thing is the punchline of a joke days after you told it. My thing is midnight runs to the grocery stored for something obscure: Lemon squares. Kaiser rolls. Apple gummy rings.
My thing is irreverent Saturday morning cartoons, and then a brilliant documentary right after. My thing is a silent Saturday afternoon off when I’m (…guess what) reading. My thing is organizing a playlist before a long car ride and games of where where you when:
Usher’s Confession album came out
Obama took Office
My thing is my first cup of coffee in the morning and the sounds of James Brown to start my day. My thing is crying when I remember my old teachers – great teachers – who said good things about me long before I understood them, and recalling folks who loved me long before I even realized it, and left before I had the good sense to say thank you.
The point is there is an infinite amount of romantic moments in my life, most of which might happen on accident.
Please, do not interrupt those moments with your corny ass and unoriginal roses.