Thursday, October 1, 2009

Shall you be my new romance?

I love musicals. Love them.

Live musicals, not musicals made into movies. With the exception of RENT, which is good no matter the medium.

There is absolutely nothing like watching the entire cast of "The Music Man" come on stage for their finale with actual trombones in a little theater on Broadway. Nothing like the feeling you get when Angel returns to the stage for his curtain call in RENT or the flurry of perfectly-choreographed activity during "La Vie Boheme." Nothing like the chandelier falling in Phantom of the Opera, and nothing like the sparkle of the solid-gold cast of "A Chorus Line" as they dance in front of the giant rotating mirrors during their finale.

But what I really love about musicals? The so-not-realistic love stories that go with them.

Mimi blowing out her candle over and over so Roger will relight it and she can stay in his apartment longer during their first meeting.

Marian the Librarian wistfully singing "Goodnight, my Someone," not knowing that her "someone" had just arrived in town and would repent of his swindling ways when he falls in love with her.

Warbucks telling Grace he likes her teeth crooked.

Lilli and Fred. Christine and Raoul. Collins and Angel. Emile and Nellie.

Anna, in her gorgeous ballgown, and King Mongkut singing "Shall we Dance?" and gliding around together as if they're floating on a cloud.

When the last little star has left the sky,
Shall we still be together
With our arms around each other
And shall you be my new romance?

My new romance.

It's no secret that our life is not like a musical. (Now that I think about it, that would be weird.) There's no choreographed dancing in our house (though occasionally there's some unchoreographed dancing in the kitchen), and the only singing we do together is terribly out of tune and to the blaring radio as we (sometimes unwillingly) peel wallpaper on a Sunday afternoon.

There's only us.

There's only this.


And although there are times that Jack sweeps me off my feet, most of the time what actually sweeps me off of my feet is more like, well, sweeping. Or mopping. Or doing the dishes. Or laundry. Or mowing the lawn.

My new romance.

Coming home to find the kitchen spotless is my new romance. Taking his truck to work because he's taking my car to get its oil changed is my new romance. Eating Wendy's fast food he bought for us so I don't have to cook on a weeknight is my new romance. And Jack getting up and cleaning up the dog vomit at 2 a.m.? Quite possibly the most romantic of all.

A new romance, indeed.

But if he's not doing those things? That's okay. We can just sit in our dirty house and cereal for dinner instead. Because that's romantic too.

After all, there's no day but today.

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