In the archives of this blog you will see pictures of romance and happiness and friendship and love and a general sense that we are a part of the beautiful people clan. We eat strawberries dipped in chocolate and drink champagne from flutes and eat at restaurants like Garibaldi’s dining on corn meal encrusted fried oysters served over green tomatoes drizzled with a roasted pepper remoulade. We attend art museum functions, even walking off with the sculpture from the winning bid.
Yeah, it’s really as good as it sounds. But authenticity begs a less pretty revelation.
If we have endeavored to show ourselves as a real couple tripping the life fantastic on a monthly basis amidst these tired dates, we must adhere to truth in advertising standards and showcase our lower, less romantic, attributes. And who could doubt we’ve had them this year, our low points? Or, maybe there are those who read Tired Dating as a kind of fantasy trip all their own, trading daily blahs for our easy life. If we can be of fantasy material for some other tired soul(s) then so be it. But at this point they should probably digress. If anyone is going to live vicariously through our tired dates they should have the stones to see how the sausage is made.
There are days when the laundry piles so high it looks like we are constructing a personal WIPEOUT course from the rec room to the attic. “Goodnight, and, big balls.”
One of us, I won’t name who, has on regular occasions been heard to scream “where’s the freakin’ plunger” to the obvious and just as motivated response “where do YOU think it is you jackwagon?”
Having never been able to successfully subscribe to the “never go to bed mad” philosophy, there have been a few nights this year when we have slept beneath the same roof, but in different beds. Not proud of that, but we are making sausage here, remember.
Every other fortnight one of us buys a plug-in scent bomb to thin out the odor de canine while the other comes behind and clandestinely unplugs that sucker for being unwillingly intoxicated by the aroma of old lady powder. It’s Clouseau and Cato all over again, minus the Asian and French Connection.
And last night we argued about the proper usage, or rather non-usage, of couch pillows. Are they for show? Are they for comfort? These are questions for the ages. Evidently.
And eternity is all about us.
Relational moments good and bad will last forever, in our memories, in our actions and reactions based upon years of doing life together. So, make the most of these moments, not because they are fleeting, but rather because they are eternal.
And that brings us to a revelation we have surprisingly considered each of the past ten months: the further a marriage gets from reality, in practice or in theory, the harder it is for that marriage to thrive within the ritualized confines of typical, ordinary living.
We have three more dates to record in the balance of our year. We will probably spend more on a dinner than we should. We will wear clothes that make us feel pretty, as if our beauty merely comes from the surface. But know this; these dates, while appearing perhaps showy and grandiose, have helped make for us one of the best years we have ever had.
Eternity within the ordinary.
(There is a reason sausage taste so good. It takes effort to get it right.)