Another Love Story

I found Taylor Swift’s Love Story within the iTunes library that I share with my husband. More a fan of folk- and/or alternative- rock, I’m frequently teasing him about his poor taste in music and how surprising this is to me given that he originally taught me much of what I now know and appreciate about music. He introduced me to classic rock over 20 years ago, and now he listens to pop! “The student surpasses the teacher,” I only half joke and arrogantly assert as I hold to my conviction that good music is an objective fact and not just a matter of taste. And that I’m the judge and jury when it comes to such objective facts, despite the fact that I don’t believe in objectivity.

Anyway, in spite of myself, I love Swift’s song. Feminist that I can be, I hesitate to admit that this girl called me longs for her version of Romeo. I think many of us do, unless of course one is apt to dream about her version of Juliet. For me, it’s Romeo I find myself somewhat shamelessly wanting. My version is the type with a strong, solid exterior alongside a sensitive, wounded heart that is almost inaccessible.

On one specific occasion many years ago, my husband was my Romeo. I had fallen on an icy patch of an isolated part of the private school campus where he and I lived at the time. I hit my head on a brick wall and blacked out, just for a moment, as I lay alone on the concrete unable to get myself up. Not too long after, a student passed by and got help; but when the “help” arrived, no one wanted to touch me. I think they were thrown off by my inability to get myself up and concerned about a spinal cord injury, as we’re all taught to be in those basic-life-saving-skills classes which teach us to administer CPR with dummies. As I lay on the ground of ice, pleading with my coworkers not to call an ambulance, my husband appeared. He might as well have been riding a white horse. He ran over, pushed everyone out of the way, and swept me off the ground—into his arms—and away from that terrible scene. Then he took me home.

This is the one clear memory I have of him being that strong, solid man coming to my rescue. There is only one memory, not because he wouldn’t do it again in a heartbeat, but because these aren’t the usual roles we play for each other. My default mode is to be the strong one: I don’t need, or allow, rescuing. Though, as I reflect on my role as the damsel-in-distress, I know that there is something relieving for me in receiving help—and in having a Romeo to turn toward.

Today, I needed a Romeo again. Yesterday’s battle with a huge pothole threw off the alignment in my car and affected the tire pressure. Still, the car seemed drivable, and I was determined to get to my shamanic healing appointment this morning. On my way, the affected tire blew—on the highway. The scent of burning rubber accompanied a blinking engine light before I was quite cognizant of what was happening. Still, always one to be calm under pressure, I managed to get the car onto an off-ramp. After nearly driving one of the rims off its axel, that was as far as my reliable Subaru was going. So I sat in the car, contacted AAA, and then called my Romeo.

Before he showed up, I met two other Shakespearian characters, each ready to save me from the tragic circumstances of this bitterly cold winter morning. The first was the son of a state trooper—also driving a Subaru—who was kind enough to stop and make sure I was okay. He offered to call in a trooper to sit behind my car until all was safe; and he reminded me, with a smile, that I should not have been driving on a rim. The second strapping young prince was the tow-truck driver, who, when we initially spoke by phone, assured me that he would find me even though I couldn't tell him quite where I was. Once on the scene, he invited me into his truck to keep warm; and when he discovered that a muscle-related disability made it impossible for me to step into that sexy but very-far-off-the-ground truck of his, he took charge of ensuring that I’d be safely escorted from the scene. Prince Eric later called back to make sure I knew exactly where he had taken my car, leaving me feeling a bit like a princess.

As this hero of a man was saving me from a potential highway tragedy, my third Romeo entered the picture, quickly moving toward me from the thru-street at the end of the off-ramp—where I was now standing with a huge tow-truck and state trooper nearby. This time my husband took my hand, leading me over the treacherous ice, across the traffic-full street, and into the safety and warmth of his not-so-high-off-the-ground car. He then claimed full responsibility for the incident—claiming that he should have never let me drive the car after the pothole war—and tended to all of the practical details, leaving me free to transform this mini, road-side crisis into a Taylor Swift Love Story complete with three leading men.

He would be happy to know he was cast as the hero in this based-in-reality fantasy of mine. And I was happy enough to be in need of rescuing. Politically incorrect and offensive as this story-weaving may be to some, I think it illustrates the usefulness of fantasy, which is to help us recognize the rigidity of the roles we usually play… and the lives we usually lead. My fantasies of late have led me closer to surrender. This has come in the form of asking for help, giving up control, not having to be so strong, and relaxing into receiving. Plus, it’s fun to transform a tow-truck driver into Romeo with a sexy truck, staring in a role-play of a pop song.