Three Years Later, The Romance Is Gone
The Way We Were
My fella and I recently celebrated three years of smooching face (with only each other). What a sensational feat for a commitment-phobe and a born-geekface—I’ll let you guess which is which.
The first two anniversaries were celebrated with fancy dinners, plenty of eye-batting, and extravagant presents. Love was in the air, and credit card debt was on the rise. The American Dream was alive and well in our relationship.
The first year, my thoughtful manfriend gifted me Brandon Flowers—a dude on my free pass list—in the form of The Killers at the Hollywood Bowl. A little beer in the parking lot and a tiny, charismatic performer on stage belting out the soundtrack of our first year together was the perfect way to celebrate. Not to mention, the Psychedelic Furs as the opening act—a dream for a John Hughes fanatic like myself. Could it get any better?
The next year, we celebrated with my favorite country singer, Gary Allan. My born-and-raised-above-the-Mason-Dixon boy toy risked his Yankee reputation for my happiness. I may have found the perfect man, with the ability to recognize the fine gem that I am and a strong desire to keep me happy, even if it involved hanging out in a room full of cowboy hats.
Two dynamic years in a row. What more could a girl ask for? Could he possibly hit the trifecta? It all came down to year three, when I excitedly opened my gift (which was larger than previous wrappings) to find...a t-shirt. Nothing says romance like 100% cotton, right? Granted, it was a shirt that I wanted, and he had slipped a shiny object on my left hand merely a month before. That’s when the blinding realization hit me: The courtship is over. I said yes, already, so what was there to work for anymore?
His Side Of The Story
Merry Christmas, Megavitamin!
What did I get him to celebrate our third year of companionship? Contrary to correct previous accusations, I gifted him a book of love letters George Carlin wrote to his beloved Sally Wade. I’m engaged to a comedy writer, and I thought that was the most bomb-ass gift I’ve come up with in awhile. My fine fella declared, “I can’t wait to read this!” However, the book has been on the closet shelf, being slowly nibbled away by dust mites ever since. Oh how the tides have changed.
To address the tiny elephant in the room, I may have purchased him a gym membership as a sort-of engagement gift, BUT with sincerity in my heart. The expectation is that I will put my body through some non-sexy sweaty times in the next 7 months to ensure I will be in smokin’ hot shape for the beach the week following the wedding (it’s a given I’ll be gorgeous on my wedding day no matter what—have you seen me? I can pull of white like it’s nobody’s biznass. I think it shows off the purity of my humility.)
I say if I’m going down, you’re coming with me. That’s what this diamond ring represents anyway, right? Besides, the 8ish pounds I’ve gained this year are his fault. He’s driven me to drink more calories (and he’s benefitted from my temporary euphoria), and I think it’s only fair that he be present while I run them off on the treadmill. Teamwork, baby, teamwork. To quote the great Melvin Udall, “You make me want to be a better man.” So let’s be better men together.
I say to my beloved, maybe for Christmas instead of getting me a Yankee sweatshirt to go with my t-shirt, you can get me Derek Jeter (preferably topless). You’re a fan, I’m a fan. Everybody wins!