The other day I was watching Jane Eyre (the one with William Hurt) and it made me wonder whatever happened to anticipation in romance? I had to leave right at the best part of the movie, when Edward reveals his love for Jane and asks her to marry him. And, you know, it's a cathartic moment because you've been getting coiled tight watching Jane's furtive glances toward Edward, wondering if he could ever love a plain girl like her. Then when Jane embraces him and says, "Oh, yes, Edward, yes," you just melt, right? Well, I do anyway. Stuff like that just doesn't happen anymore, assuming it ever did. But wouldn't it be nice? Up to a point, of course. I'm not advocating that women start taking the whole white wedding concept too seriously if it doesn't float their boat, but there's something to be said about holding back. This observation comes after a decade of marriage and a seven-year-old, so I'm probably at a point in my life where I'm starting to wander down Prude Lane.
My husband tells me I'm a romantic at heart all the time and I tell him I'm not. I only read trashy romance novels for four years after graduate school because I was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder and the thought of having to think about what I was reading made me physically ill. And that's the God's-honest truth. It's certainly not about anything as silly as being a romantic. I laugh at the idea, ha, ha, ha.
So what am I talking about here? Am I just talking about anticipation? Am I talking about a chivalrous sort of respect? I don't know. Chime in with your thoughts.
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