What Romance Really Means


It’s not saying ‘I love you.’ It’s saying: listen, I’m sorry for sending you passive-aggressive text messages from my cubicle all afternoon because we had a petty fight over generic brand cereal at breakfast; it’s essentially a stupid-fucking-argument, so why don’t you sit on my face for an hour, while I recite the Iliad, and we call it a day?

Romance is not always letting them have the last word.

It’s recognizing that while pornography might indicate that your partner enjoys having the steamy unborn evacuated on their face, this is seldom (if ever) the case. Stop asking.

It is loving more than you are loved.

It’s knowing the difference between yes, and yes.

Romance means never having to translate the phrase “I don’t know.”

Romance means never having to explain the difference between “seen,” and “saw” to your partner. This is because your partner gives a shit about the fact that you’re a SNOOT; and knows that, while they may not share your Nazi affiliations with syntax, they certainly respect you enough to observe practical usage guidelines.

Romance is never having to say you’re sorry for forgetting a Courtesy Tap, because you never forget that shit. Ever.

Is accepting that while the Twenty Something Game Plan (TSGP)of $20K in wedding-debt, and an indignant-little-shit-of-child by 30 might suffice for a large portion of your friend-pool, this doesn’t mean that you’re doing anything wrong if you’ve been dating for three years, and are overcome with horror by the mention of a detached T (not to mention an SGP). It’s remembering that your friends tied the knot, so they could fuck without having to pray about it.

Romance means knowing the difference between Good Secrets, and Bad Secrets:

a. G.S. = Yes, I would consider leaving you if Natalie Portman gave me express permission to be her indentured servant—a position wherein my hats would include (but be not limited to): Spoon-Feeder, Body-Lotion-Applier, Official-Genital-Ambassador, et cetera—but that I would ultimately opt-out, spending the rest of our relationship resenting you for a guilt-trip you never knew you caused.

b. B.S. = I regularly ejaculate on you while you’re sleeping.

Romance is understanding that you can’t love someone if you don’t admire them.

It means going to bed angry, because sometimes an eight hour nap is so much more effective than bawdy- hand-print-heavy-I-hate-you-right-now-but-I’m-wearing-fuck-me-heels-so-OK-FINE Make Up Sex.

Romance is pissing while they brush their teeth.

Is having the audacity to confront your motives, and be genuinely honest with another human.

It means being intentionally soft-shelled.

Is understanding that similar beliefs make for shitty Pillow Talk—that differences are more fun.

Romance means taking a walk, not because it’s romantic, but because you both just ate the shit out of some Taco Tuesday Delight, and you don’t want to end up like The Comfortable Couple.

Romance means making plans set in sand, not in stone.

It means knowing that asking your partner how many people they’ve been with is sort of like asking your parents what the circumstances surrounding your conception were: the only thing that matters is that you’re here now.

Romance means understanding that, not uncommonly, shit doesn’t work out—is knowing that, although we play the blame-game, there’s no one really at fault for this phenomenon.

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