I dream romance, read romance, believe in the power of romance.
Even though I’m as single as they come.
Yup, 40 and never been married.
Forty, and I haven’t had one romantic moment in my life.
Or, at least, not romantic (enough) for me.
Sure, I’ve dated lots. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not the old maid type who wears 20-year-old long skirts, peasant blouses, and Birkenstocks.
No, I sell stocks; yes, I’m a stockbroker, and I work around tons of testosterone.
But there’s little romance in testosterone, let me tell you.
I’ve learned early to not date stockbrokers. Yuck. Materialistic, selfish, and sad.
So, I date their brothers, who tend to be college professors or store clerks.
The professors are too academic (“There is no such thing as love.”) and the clerks too casual (“Wanna come over and watch the fish in my aquarium?”).
I’ve dated surfers (but I hate swimming), bank tellers (see above about store clerks), consultants (they think they know everything), and engineers (they know they know everything).
About a year ago, I gave up.
Until last night, when the bartender at my favorite watering hole invites me to visit the modern museum’s newest collection with him today.
For some strange (dare I say, romantic?) reason, I agree.
We’re standing together now in one of the large museum rooms, perusing a pen and ink drawing that looks like an inkblot.
“Let’s each write down what we think this is,” Michael suggests. “Then share.”
I find two index cards in my purse, and two pens.
He looks impressed.
Mine says, “Two dancers locking lips at a costume party.”
Michael’s says: “You and me, after a night of passion, vowing to love each other for all eternity.”
Oh my. I’m hooked.
Our romance begins.