Home >opinion >blogs >Dancing Divorcee: Not tall, dark and handsome

I remember when I was a young, impressionable romantic and was asked what I wanted in my future partner, I’d gush into a stream of unstoppable adjectives with the giddy-eyed wonder of someone who hadn’t yet sniffed reality. Well, a divorce rubs your nose in so much reality that it stays there, like a permanent mole, dark, black and sometimes very attractive.

The bar for what I needed in a man got altered considerably after the ‘till-death-do-us-apart’ vow didn’t work. In some aspects it got considerably upped, especially in the boring but essential factors like financial stability, responsibility, politeness to my parents, honesty, commitment and in other areas it became nonexistent. Today, I don’t really care a damn about the kind of music a man I’d like to date listens to.

Something in me had changed and suddenly I understood that it’s not really that important if he likes Bukowski, it’s more important that he doesn’t disturb me when I read that grand old poet.

I no more wanted to cook like his mom, I just wanted a nice conversation at mealtime.

It didn’t matter if he didn’t remember the date we met, the date we fell in love, the date we got married, the date we both injured the little toe on our respective right leg, as long as he remembered his wedding vows.

Who cares if he didn’t get along with my friends, it was more important that he got along with me.

A sense of humour is always great but I’d rather not have it, if this humour is directed at me with malice.

Romance wasn’t about the flowers, the gifts and the other million cliches that the outside world with its paucity of imagination inflicts upon me. It was more about being a good person, someone who wanted the best for me, who perhaps charged my phone without being asked to, simply because it was going to die.

Forgetting to put the cap on the toothpaste, leaving the towel on the bed, not switching off lights when he leaves the room will never irritate me again. Instead, I will cap the toothpaste, pick the towel, switch off the lights and smile, as long as he’ll give me a big fat hug that evening, simply because he likes me very, very much.

The romantic idealism of my youth had died a gory death. A part of me is glad, for in those days I wanted the world and all I got was a chip on the shoulder (His, not mine). Today, as I stand clear-eyed, a bit more sure about my needs, I know that what I want stems from a reality so close to the bone that it cuts. Perhaps, that’s why I’ll get it, though truthfully, I do not know which is better.

And yet I do know, if he’s kind to my heart, he can even be allergic to dogs. And guess for me, that says it all.

Dancing Divorcee is a weekly happy, sad, funny, obnoxious blog on the misadventure called divorce. It will appear every Thursday. Arathi Menon is a dancing divorcee who also blogs, writes, tweets and repairs brands.

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