The Monday after Super Bowl, my Redneck Romeo left me the most romantic thing in the fridge.
Sitting on the third shelf, the left over hot wings called out like a mythical siren. I pulled out the ranch dressing and my soon to be lunch knowing that its contents would be my least favorite part of the chicken wing–the flapper. I prefer the drummer part because I don’t have to force my tongue or teeth in between the wing’s bones. The drummer looks more like a tiny spicy, chicken lollipop, and I can easily dip it in the cool dressing with minimum sauce on my fingers. Somehow, I knew I would end up with the leftover wing flappers, but I was wrong.
In the take out box, five meaty drummer hot wing pieces
Shock pulled on my romantic heart-strings as I assumed that my wonderful, handsome, and giving Redneck Romeo left the drummers for me. He knows that they’re my favorite hot wing, and he knows that I may consciously or unconsciously eat only those out of the said take out box(I can neither confirm or deny this detail about my hot wing eating habits). I concluded that this was his way of being romantic, showing that he understand what I like and wants to make me happy.
All day, I thought him the best husband ever, but when I told him about my romantic discovery, he brushed it off with: “oh, I never opened that box.”
But to me, it was still one of the most romantic gestures…ever.
Sure, Valentine’s Day was yesterday. It’s hyped up pink and red vomit all over every greeting card aisle, floral department, and sleep wear. For too long, I focused on the roses, the chocolate, the commercialized fodder . But romance has more to do with perception than actual intent. Not every action is buzzing with romantic energies, but if I take them for granted, I become discontent, too easily led astray by Hallmark or ProFlowers or Teleflora. Discontent breeds expectations which grow up into frustrations, anger–all romance killing, all relationship ending.
For me, romance doesn’t look like diamonds or red roses, it looks like a hot wing.