I went with my music teacher to see Gounod's Romeo and Juliette last night at the movie theater (Met Simulcast). Here we were eating salads, sandwiches and popcorn, spilling soda on our laps, and there was THE great love story passionately before us. Both voices were sublime, effortless, full of emotion. They were gorgeous and sexy as well. A prolonged bed scene was quite the surprise. And yet there was a detachment I felt, given my age, with their love. It was the height of folly, impulsiveness and hopelessness. But Shakespeare's message still resonates. We have not changed, and the romantic vision of true love without obstacles makes you feel the villains are the families and their idiotic feuds. Yet, beyond what you feel in the theater, there is the knowledge that this physical passion might have spent itself quickly, and the mismatched pair might prove mismatched in more than last names. I admit it. I'm relieved to be of an age where biology is not yanking me around on a chain. They are so young, this pair of lovebirds, and the largest force compelling them is not the parents.
That is why I, and many of my friends, joke about going back to high school being the seventh circle of hell. Because now we can see our hormones were in the driver's seat. Many of us crashed and burned a few times, and none of us listened to anyone older attempting to reason with us. It's painful just to be a parent watching your kids as teenagers. You pray for luck and that they survive.
So I'll take my aged marriage and mature love, perhaps less exciting, but so deep and so safe, that the horse and buggy ride feels like a blessing.
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