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Today's post is less like a story, and more like a snapshot.
I never would have guessed what an unromantic person I am. I love romcoms, and I even write books with romance in them. But irl I am just not that romantic. Especially compared to my husband, Roger (another R!). I think he would like me to be, but it just was not meant to be.
One night, he set up one of our old cd players on the porch, got all dressed up, including a fedora hat, and then called me to our window so he could serenade me. Another time, he spent a winter day cleaning out the garage, and when evening came I realized he'd made us a dance floor. For our anniversary one year he made a treasure hunt with flowers near every clue. He often writes me notes just to make me smile. He takes me dancing a couple of times a month (except not lately, because of my dumb old knee). And he loves to bake...unfortunately, he mostly loves to bake things I'm allergic to, but he is always experimenting to find me foods I can eat.
This life we've made for ourselves is not a simple one. It would be so easy to go our separate ways and only see each other as we occasionally pass in the halls. Middle age is way different than I expected it to be. I'm grateful to be married to a romantic, and grateful that he accepts that I am not one.