It is with a great deal of pleasure and a hint of nostalgia that I am witnessing the unfolding of a love affair. I was there when the two people met each other (it is too soon to call them a couple). I was there when contact info was exchanged. I was there a week and a half-later as they attended a small gathering with two other couples.
What a thrill to watch the courtship dance as the couple makes tentative steps toward one another and the careful attention they pay as they share stories and opinions during the course of an evening’s conversation. Their stories and opinions are new to each other. In fact, everything is new – brand, spanking new and sparkly – as they discover each other. Emotions are heightened as the woman tries not to broadcast her interest too loudly and the man plays it cool (his very presence showing he is, indeed, interested).
Both have been burnt before. They are in their forties and survivors of first marriages.
There’s nothing like the beginning of love – the electricity, the uncertainty, the compulsion, the caution – it is all a rich stew that can be savored and devoured but will never, in subsequent renderings, taste quite the same or as potent.
How delightful to be a witness and take a walk back through my memory to a time not so long ago when my own love was unfolding and the cards were in the air: will it solidify and last or not? It did. (Thank, goodness.)
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A Dance with my Husband
“Kenhurra” is a Yiddish preventative measure that allows people to say things without “putting a whammy on it” as it were, so I say Kenhurra to this entire post.