What's Passionate Love Got To Do With It?

 

I find myself at 51 married to a good man (not without flaws of course—but neither am I) I have been with for 10 years, 5 of them married.  I love this man deeply but I was never “in love” with him.  Not that fireworks kind of passionate love they write novels about or I even read about in Tweets from people who swear that they did marry their one true love rather than settle for a comfortable or sensible match.

So now, maybe clichédly at midlife, questions have begun to seep in at the edges of my days, usually louder when I’m driving alone or doing household chores.  But I find it more disturbing that they are showing up in the silences between my husband and me lately.  Questions like, “What would happen if I suddenly, finally met a man who fell passionately in love with me and it was mutual?” “Would I leave my husband for a chance at a real passionate love affair?” “Is that kind of love worth giving up good, solid, lasting love that is not passionate?” “Would it be worth the risk of that passionate love burning out and losing everything?” And when exactly did I decide that Romeo and Juliet was a lie for “people like me”?  Because that was definitely a part of my dating and marriage decision processes. 

I do recall my mother teaching me that passionate love was more fairytale than real.  So, you know, possibly ground zero here.  Her marriage was like mine, if more difficult for reasons I won’t go into.  She was very pretty but struggled with weight and self-esteem.  Like mom, I was the smart funny fat girl, and everyone knows that story.  

For a long time, I clung to the hope of being “the special girl”. The ordinary, less than traditionally gorgeous, girl that a guy falls hopelessly in love with because of my unique brand of cleverness or humor. And even then I was lowering my expectations.  Never daydreaming of the gorgeous boys. Instead longing for what I imagined were more attainable gawky nerds or loners.  We would bond over our shared lonely outsider status, take comfort in an unexpected connection and then passion would explode.  This did not happen.  Ever.  I had not one date in high school.  I did not go to prom.  Yes, I was that girl.

How many books, television shows and movies
had I marinated in with that formula?  And I considered myself intelligent enough to steer away from romance novels and rom-coms.  I thought a steady diet of science fiction, magical realism, and intellectual fantasy, with a dash of down and dirty horror and comic books would be clear sailing.  But the concept of true passionate love is, pardon my French, f#$&ing pervasive.  It’s like those hardy weeds, the ones with wide emphatic leaves, that spring up on even yards that have been done in gravel.  The ones that somehow manage to sink roots so tenacious that they’re almost impossible to remove without snapping and leaving a bit behind to grow back.

So it must have been hard to kill, that Romeo and Juliet dream.  But by the time I slipped into my 40’s there was an unspoken understanding between me, myself, and I that no one was coming to call on me one night beneath my one-story bedroom window.  I had awkwardly dated a few men.  The shockingly small number is still a point of embarrassment for me.  Why?  Another lingering question.  Again there was never that connection I’d hoped for.  Not even a comfortable, “I could be friends with this guy.”  It was more like I dated them because I thought I should.  I was in my 20’s and then 30’s.  And shouldn’t I be dating? 

When I met my husband, it was a mixture of relief and genuine affection.  Is that horrible?  To say I began a relationship with him partly because I was so glad that he didn’t make me want to run in the opposite direction.  I mean that is definitely not the definition of falling in love, not even the calm quiet kind, let alone the passionate Romeo and Juliet sort.  And I never did fall “in love” with him like that.  I gradually fell into loving him as a friend and lover but there has never been any passion.  We share our lives completely.  He is gentle and kind and good to me, and we know how to work to make our relationship solid and strong.

So why do I still wonder?  Why does the dream/desire persist after so much time and personal evidence to the contrary?  Is it a lie, or just a lie for “people like me”?  I’m the less fat, sort of plump, smart funny “girl” these days.  And is it a dangerous lie for some women in general? 

Are there answers out there?  I’m hoping to find some.

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