The Honeymoon Phase

Hades Kidnapping Persephone. The Greek origins of a winter wasteland.

Honeymoons originated in India as a way for newlyweds to voyage and visit relatives who weren’t able to make the ceremony. Today they’re great for travel agents as couples are willing to jailbreak their savings to get it on in paradise for a week.

The “Honeymoon Phase” is a requiem coined by modern day chick magazines for the novelty of new relationships. It’s a spark plug that ignites intractable passion and tenderness, and it can convert even the most modest adults into dry humping eighth graders. It’s the era of good feelings, the Pax Romana: No one can do wrong, and somehow everyone is right. Anyone who’s been there can tell you nothing blooms with the luminosity of new love. And anyone who’s been a mere witness can testify that nothing else can make you feel like you’ve eaten your weight in Seven-Eleven Hot dogs and refried beans. Isn’t it funny how everyone else’s PDA is gross?

So life is suppose to be cyclical right? And nothing lasts forever. The prophecy preaches that passion, like the full moon, wanes until it blends with the night. Your sex life freezes into the tundra of predictability as its gusto is abducted to Hades by gritty debates over the color of bathroom rugs, or the dinner menu: Chicken or chicken? And your partner’s cute little quirks, the way he forgets to zip his fly or her addiction to malapropisms, can one day urge you to lobotomize yourself.

People get bored in their relationships because they stop trying, and they stop because they try so hard to maintain an ideal reflection of perfection. It’s exhausting, and makes it that much easier to get comfortable and take it all for granted. Like collapsing in bed after working ten days straight. When the act drops, and the makeup washes way, it can be a bit of a jolt to see him fight to the death at a restaurant about a sixty cent over charge, or that she actually farts in bed. Your fun loving, nonchalant nymph can become an overnight pain in the ass. Not that you should belch the alphabet on a first date, but make sure it’s you she falls for, and not some Ken doll that wants to be a real boy.

Then of course there is a breed that lives for the honeymoon. These are people who jump through relationships without ever crossing the threshold of commitment. They thrive on that high that comes from meeting a new person until, like a crack addict, the novelty wears off and they go in search of their next hit. They're absurdist, they're alright with me. They don't bother anyone, and they jump ship before things get too serious anyway. Isn't the best divorce the one that happens before the marriage?

I am not really sure how long the “honeymoon phase” lasts. I have ballpark figures ranging from five months to two years. Today is my fifth month with Michele. A few days ago she mentioned how “they” say our honeymoon is almost over. We both agreed it was rubbish because if you’re truly compatible those first few months don’t have to be a parry of highs and withdrawals. Though we had our biggest fight recently, like all of them, it only started because we can’t be together at will not because we can’t stand each other.

It could be that the distance is working in our favor for once. It’s impossible to get sick of someone you barely see (unless you’re being audited or something). But I think it has to do more with the fact that we spent two years being friends first, which makes it seem like we’ve been together much longer. We sort of skipped the honeymoon, contracted its finest qualities, and sowed them into our lives.

As much as I wanted to hook up with Michele when I first met her, I am convinced it’s probably the best thing that could of happened. (Or maybe I just say that because I was just too chicken shit to make a move.) We spent two years being us for better or worse, so when it came time to date, it would have been futile and foolish to act like Clark Gable. There were no surprises. Obviously there are many things left for us to learn about ourselves, but in our case, we did the boring stuff first before releasing the raging hormones.

Not that I am implying you have to be BFF’s with someone before you date. Many people can’t even cross that line with “friends.” For Michele and I, it was just a matter of unpredictable circumstance. I met her, saw her for two days, and she was gone. We hit it off, and the butterflies were always there, but a lot of things were left unsaid. I doubted I would ever see her again until the day she messaged me on iChat. At that point we both had our lives, so it started as an online friendship that eventually grew too big for its container.

The “experts” say when the gas fizzles, the relationship’s true weight is exposed, and it’s time to either press forward or retreat. They say a true partnership eventually hatches from a cocoon of infatuation, and that once its established, lust can wait in the welfare line.

They’re not wrong, but they don’t have to paint a nuclear wasteland either. If sex is all you had to begin with, then it will get boring. It can’t be your number one scoring option. However if the bedroom acts as a facilitator and projects the vitality of your commitment, then it ages better than wine.

But it’s true that at some point a relationship has to be evaluated by variables that dig deeper than sexual compatibility or a mutual taste for kung-fu movies. A shared sense of direction is needed. This is the time to see if your goals and ambitions will be derailed by your partner’s, or vice versa. If one wants to be a suburban schoolteacher with a family, and the other wants to be the most interesting man in the world, then you’re both fucked.

A Better Place Like Home

The ROM: A cultural reservoir

I know it’s been a while, but things have been rather busy for me. After a few interviews, I’ve accepted another corporate slave position requiring none of the skills I went to school for, but I just returned from the best five days of my life In Toronto with Michele. Life is a trade-off. It’s the only lesson I can accept to date. (Thank you high school economics.)

I had never been north of Tennessee, and it was my first time in a “real city.” Miami is a suburban wasteland with an urban pocket by the bay, so it doesn’t really qualify. Toronto has real sidewalks, subways, and skyscrapers galore. But as much as I’d like to, I can’t just sit here and write about everything new under my sun because it would no longer be a romance blog. It would be a “wow Miami really sucks” one. I will say that it was pleasant to experience reliable public transportation, people that didn’t go out of their way to look tough(except for the Canadian customs officer who swore I had grenades in my carry on ) , food that didn’t come from a chain restaurant or
Cuban bakery, and diverse scenery basking in its antiquity.

There was also a severe lard butt deficit. In five days, I saw maybe two people who could be considered “obese.” Talk about a mind-fuck. They have a real museum too, with armor and dinosaur fossils and all that great stuff you see on TV. The most we have here is a really crappy science expo for fourth graders that moonlights as a stoner lounge every Friday when they play Pink Floyd laser light-shows in the planetarium (not that I am complaining). The Royal Ontario Museum was to me like Duff Beer is to Homer Simpson. It’s that good. Next time I hope to spend a whole day in it.

Oh boy, I did what I said I wouldn’t. Half the article is composed of me bragging about my trip. But it works out because the contrast will explain why it was so hard to leave. This was my first time visiting Michele on her turf, and this time, I was the one clawing for a final glimpse on my way to customs. It was a surreal shift of perspective. Now I know what she’s had to go through on three occasions in Miami. That’s not to say that it doesn’t suck watching her leave too, but one can’t follow past security. There’s nothing one can do without landing on the “no fly list,” so you have to accept it. The passenger reserves the right to walk back, and staying on track drains every drop of will from the well. Your stomach feels like its river- dancing, your life back home is as tempting as a sludge bath in the Gulf of Mexico, and you subconsciously hope that a snowstorm delays all flights.

There’s more to it than “I miss my girlfriend.” Though that is the fertile crescent of it all. We had a hotel room to ourselves. It gave a taste of shared residency. And that’s what all the waiting and saving is about: A life with her in Toronto. We’ve thought about it, and it just seems like the right move. I have no reservations about leaving South Florida behind, but she actually loves her city. As her father said, “ Imagine hating the place you grew up in.” Why would I want to stay? We are flexible though. There’s always a chance California comes knocking with a fat check.

Anyway, for those four days and nights, I had it, and it was better than any fantasy I could conjure. When it was time to part, I felt like I had been offered a trial membership in Eden only to be tossed out while unloading my suitcase and recovering from jet lag.

This is the part where I am supposed to offer some practical nuggets of wisdom to alleviate the cold empty silence. But for the first time in my life, I’ll admit that I don’t know everything. Perspective keeps me going. All of this amounts to less than a year. The distance will be a mere footnote when we look back from the future. But the present is persistent. Aging like the universe, It inflates until specific points are obscure distant beacons. How do you deal with it? I came home and poured myself a scotch. If you have suggestions, feel free to share.