…not with a bang, but a whimper. The big news is that I finally finished Eclipse and am now onto Breaking Dawn, where I’m feeling rather cheated that there isnt any detailed description of Edward and Bella’s suhaag raat. And here was I sitting with tongue hanging out, waiting with eager eye to figure out what making out with a vampire read like. What? What? What? After four books of staying chaste, doesnt the paying public deserve it’s money’s worth? Now that Breaking Dawn is finally here, and Bella has done the extremely boring thing and gone married her Prince Charming, the charm of the book has paled a bit for me. I now see Cullen as a typical husband, comatose in front of the television, guzzling down the beer (or animal blood as his case might be), and packing on the pounds on the gut. And belching fire. And snoring loud enough to wake the dead or the undead as the case might be. What? What? What? Dont all Greek Gods become like that when they turn into husbands? You think I got cheated? You think I should ask for my money back?
Anyway, I’m the kind of morbid romantic who believes the truest of romances end with both lovers either not being able to culminate their romance and live together forever. Heer Ranjha, Romeo and Juliet and all them star crossed lovers have me sobbing the salty stuff. What fun is there in finally traipsing up the aisle to then start squabbling about groceries and why the hell he should be forced to eat fat free butter, and of course, the toilet seat. Romance is often the one who got away, the one who is probably now debating toilet seat issues with another. Romance is the kind of teeth on the edge feeling that comes from knowing that these are the few precious moments you get with the other, and no guarantee of them coming again.
When you go round the holy fire seven times (or eight in my case I think because everyone stopped counting, including the pandit and we took an extra one just to make sure) or walk down the aisle to Here Comes the Bridezilla, or just simply sign at the registry, you voluntarily opt for retirement from the romance game. Then comes along the practical business of living, setting up home, dealing with in laws, having children, paying bills and the most scary of them all, letting your husband see you without your makeup and with morning dogbreath. Where’s the romance in dogbreath and morning puffy faces? I start up in shock when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror before I’ve had a chance to splash water on said face. At times, I’ve almost run out shrieking about the apparition in the mirror with gruesome sunken eyes before realising, that, err, its me. Without the warpaint.
And all they say about doing occasional dinners together, and spending time rediscovering the romance and such like sound advice as is printed in the columns of women’s magazines, and written by well meaning women who probably would have to thread a rope through the noses of their spouses to get them to do romantic dinners a deux, is bunkum. When you’re married a while like I am, read enough to have had kids of legal age had we made kids in the first year we’d been together, the most romantic thing I can expect is a cranium shattering head massage when I’m laid low by a migraine attack. How can dinner at a fancy restaurant even come close? Considering I am the one who eschews them fine dining places and suggests the very practical All You Can Eat Buffets where I can eat one helping short of being physically chucked out of the premises.
Met some friends for coffee yesterday and spotted Karishma Kapoor, patiently waiting in line, placing her order, looking for all like a fresh faced college kid playing hookey. And in no possible angle as someone who just had a baby come out of her a few months ago. Looked down at self and thunder thighs and jelly belly had a Mother Earth Swallow me now moment, which of course, never happened. Instead I sat and ate cake. There is a reason why the beautiful people are the beautiful people, and it has nothing to do with standing in line at Costa Coffee. Perhaps I should have checked what she was ordering. Perhaps I could have ordered the same. Maybe it would have done wonderful things to my skin and waistline, and perhaps I could look like a college kid meself.
To come back to the romance disappearing after marriage, I’d like to think it just makes way for love. Love that doesnt need the grand gesture and the fancy wooing to make its presence felt. A love that is. A love that comes from sharing a life together, in sickness in health, in poverty in wealth, through PMS, through midlife crisis, through bad perms and wierd hairstyles, through weight gain and weightloss. There is a difference, you know. The romance, it dies. But the love, it is what should live on till you hit them rocking chairs parked side by side, and share dentures.