Message-ID: <20010625083441.29969.qmail@mail01.edsamail.com.ph>
Date: Tue, 19 Jun 2001 23:11:40 +0800
From: "Kath" <gingham20@edsamail.com.ph>
To: "shela" <shelamipo@yahoo.com>,
 "mark" <megarock@edsamail.com.ph>,
 "elmer" <merp@edsamail.com.ph>,
 "horacio" <mad kick@lycos.com>,
 "julius" <huliot@yahoo.com>
Subject: Fw: Subject: [singko] The Best Kind of Love (,")(",)
Content-Type: text/plain


> The Best Kind of Love
> by: Annette Paxman Bowen
> 
> I have a friend who is falling in love. She honestly
> claims the sky is
> bluer. Mozart moves her to tears. She has lost 15
> pounds and looks like a
> cover girl.
> 
> "I'm young again!" she shouts exuberantly.
> 
> As my friend raves on about her new love, I've taken
> a good look at my old
> one. My husband of almost 20 years, Scott, has
> gained 15 pounds. Once a
> marathon runner, he now runs only down hospital
> halls. His hairline is
> receding and his body shows the signs of long
> working hours and too many
> candy bars. Yet he can still give me a certain look
> across a restaurant
> table and I want to ask for the check and head home.
> 
> When my friend asked me "What will make this love
> last?" I ran through all
> the obvious reasons: commitment, shared interests,
> unselfishness, physical
> attraction, communication. Yet there's more. We
> still have fun. Spontaneous
> good times. Yesterday, after slipping the rubber
> band off the rolled up
> newspaper, Scott flipped it playfully at me: this
> led to an all-out war.
> Last Saturday at the grocery, we split the list and
> raced each other to see
> who could make it to the checkout first. Even
> washing dishes can be a blast.
> We enjoy simply being together.
> 
> And there are surprises. One time I came home to
> find a note on the front
> door that led me to another note, then another,
> until I reached the walk-in
> closet. I opened the door to find Scott holding a
> "pot of gold " (my cooking
> kettle) and the "treasure" of a gift package.
> Sometimes I leave him notes on
> the mirror and little presents under his pillow.
> 
> There is understanding. I understand why he must
> play basketball with the
> guys. And he understands why, once a year, I must
> get away from the house,
> the kids - and even him-to meet my sisters for a few
> days of nonstop talking
> and laughing.
> 
> There is sharing. Not only do we share household
> worries and parental
> burdens - we also share ideas. Scott came home from
> a convention last month
> and presented me with a thick historical novel.
> Though he prefers thrillers
> and science fiction, he had read the novel on the
> plane. He touched my heart
> when he explained it was because he wanted to be
> able to exchange ideas
> about the book after I'd read it.
> 
> There is forgiveness. When I'm embarrassingly loud
> and crazy at parties,
> Scott forgives me. When he confessed losing some of
> our savings in the stock
> market, I gave him a hug and said, "It's okay. It's
> only money."
> 
> There is sensitivity. Last week he walked through
> the door with that look
> that tells me it's been a tough day. After he spent
> some time with the kids,
> I asked him what happened. He told me about a
> 60-year-old woman who'd had a
> stroke. He wept as he recalled the woman's husband
> standing beside her bed,
> caressing her hand. How was he going to tell this
> husband of 40 years that
> his wife would probably never recover? I shed a few
> tears myself. Because of
> the medical crisis. Because there were still people
> who have been married 40
> years. Because my husband is still moved and
> concerned after years of
> hospital rooms and dying patients.
> 
> There is faith. Last Tuesday a friend came over and
> confessed her fear that
> her husband is losing his courageous battle with
> cancer. On Wednesday I went
> to lunch with a friend who is struggling to reshape
> her life after divorce.
> On Thursday a neighbor called to talk about the
> frightening effects of
> Alzheimer's disease on her father-in-law's
> personality. On Friday a
> childhood friend called long-distance to tell me her
> father had died. I hung
> up the phone and thought, This is too much heartache
> for one week. Through
> my tears, as I went out to run some errands, I
> noticed the boisterous orange
> blossoms of the gladiolus outside my window. I heard
> the delighted laughter
> of my son and his friend as they played. I caught
> sight of a wedding party
> emerging from a neighbor's house. The bride, dressed
> in satin and lace,
> tossed her bouquet to her cheering friends. That
> night, I told my husband
> about these events. We helped each other acknowledge
> the cycles of life and
> that the joys counter the sorrows. It was enough to
> keep us going.
> 
> Finally, there is knowing. I know Scott will throw
> his laundry just shy of
> the hamper every night; he'll be late to most
> appointments and eat the last
> chocolate in the box. He knows that I sleep with a
> pillow over my head; I'll
> lock us out of the house at a regular basis, and I
> will also eat the last
> chocolate.
> 
> I guess our love lasts because it is comfortable.
> No, the sky is not bluer:
> it's just a familiar hue. We don't feel particularly
> young: we've
> experienced too much that has contributed to our
> growth and wisdom, taking
> its toll on our bodies, and created our memories.
> 
> I hope we've got what it takes to make our love
> last. As a bride, I had
> Scott's wedding band engraved with Robert Browning's
> line "Grow old along
> with me!" We're following those instructions.
> 
> "If anything is real, the heart will make it plain."


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