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Isn't It Romantic?
by Camerin Courtney
May 11, 2005
I'm in my kitchen trying to ignore the dark chocolate Toblerone bar calling my name when I hear it. A jazz trio. I listen closely for a moment to try to figure out where it's coming from. My neighbor on that side of my apartment had been playing Sinatra earlier, so I suspect him—but no. This is live—and, I finally realize, coming from one of the restaurants across the alley.
I open the back door to the deck that wraps around our apartment building and listen briefly to the jazzy tune. As I refill my water glass, the reason for my kitchen trip, I suddenly blurt out, "God, how awesome would it be to have a man to pop out on my deck and enjoy this little moment with?"
I'm surprised by my outburst. I wouldn't classify myself as a hopeless romantic, but I can picture the moment just the same—sitting on my molded plastic deck chairs silently savoring the impromptu concert. Or even getting up and slow dancing just a bit. Sharing our own little movie moment. I let a dreamy sigh escape from my lips before returning to Spanglish, my rented Saturday night entertainment.
Forty-five minutes later I'm back in the kitchen for a refill (I'm in a pre-shorts-weather, let's-lose-those-last-ten-pounds water-drinking kick). The music remains, and this time I can't resist its lure. I grab a sweatshirt and my slide-on Skechers, making me a mis-matched wonder. Before heading outside, I forage in my fridge for anything at all matching the moment, and find a half-empty bottle of sparkling grape juice a fellow singleton gave me in a care package so long ago. I'm amazed to find that by some freak of nature, it's still fizzy. I pour some into one of my "fancy glasses" and head outside.
It's one of those first warm, clear nights of spring, where there's almost an electricity in the air. I peek down over the ledge of my third-floor apartment to figure out which restaurant is sporting the great music, and silently hope my party-animal neighbors are out for the night and don't find me lurking in the dark alone dressed in a crazy get-up at 10:30 on a Saturday night. Behold the swinging single life! I giggle at the thought of getting "caught" at this, and then settle into one of my plastic chairs just as a saxophone solo starts.
I sip and smile and feel an odd mixture of joy and … melancholy. Melancholy because it's a beautiful Saturday and I spent the day alone cleaning my apartment and doing laundry. Melancholy because I had a Me Night last night, too. Melancholy because I let a couple of romantic possibilities slip through my fingers lately. It was the right thing to do in both cases, but doing the right thing has led me here—in the dark on my deck sipping miraculously still-sparkly grape juice and listening to dreamy music on a Saturday night … alone.
While I'm not a hopeless romantic, I do recognize our need for romance in our lives. For feeling special and savored and tingly every now and then. And for the life of me I don't know how to get that without a romantic prospect in my life. For some reason, tonight I'm feeling that lack. Something in the warm night air, the dreamy music, the sneaky peek I have of it all from my third-floor perch calls for romance. And I can't answer.
For a moment I let myself enjoy the exquisite ache, knowing full well that sometimes the anticipation and longing for something are better than the actual acquiring or fulfilling. Today the ache is what I have, so the ache I enjoy.
I think of my friend Jan, who used to mentally decorate her imaginary house. When we were at a flea market years ago and I was admiring a chair I wouldn't be able to afford for years, if ever, she told me what she did in such moments: pick out all the lovely things she admired but couldn't afford at the time and mentally place them in the appropriate room of her imaginary house. Knowing Jan and her good taste, I just knew it was a lovely place. And that day, I started filling my own "home in my head."
In that spirit, I close my eyes for a moment and picture this moment in my mental married life. Ever so briefly I allow my mind to go there, to see us dancing that slow dance, to see him noticing my shivers when a cool breeze bursts down the alley and warming me with an embrace.
Now, I'm not naïve enough to think that if I was married or if I was seriously seeing someone that things would be any different. He might hate to dance or say it's too cold or weird. I know some married women—or men—could be out here alone, too, wishing for a spouse who's more romantic or attentive or spontaneous.
And maybe that's the point—being able to enjoy life's occasional romantic moments as is, no matter what. To allow that brief moment of wishing for what isn't, and then choosing to savor and be thankful for what is.
Tonight what is is a surprise backdoor concert with a clear blue-black sky, the happy noises of restaurant chatter and clinking glasses, a fun fizzy drink, the clickety-clack of the nearby commuter train, a wonderfully quaint neighborhood to call home, a lofty perch from which to take it all in.
And answered prayer. At the beginning of this planless weekend, I asked God to meet me here. Opening my eyes and spying the first few stars of evening, I realize he has.
Camerin welcomes your feedback and brainstorms at: SinglesNewsletter@ChristianityToday.com
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