Lover’s Paradise

My lover and I, namely LeBron, woke up to this view last weekend. Lovely, ain’t it?

We decided to run away from home, take one of those much needed trips to rejuvenate our spirits. It was a last minute decision as we left around 2 on a lazy Saturday afternoon. I usually like to get an earlier start, but as we contemplated spending another weekend in our boring hometown, with “been-there-done-that” attitudes, getting away was the best thing we could have done.

All couples need this time.

Which lead to us against the wind, driving on I-10 toward the beach, LeBron and I facing our first road trip.

It hit a small bump in the beginning, the journey starting with us arguing about how to get there. In her usual masculine superiority, LeBron thought we should take a more scenic route, rather than the congested freeway. But the problem was she wasn’t quite sure of the direction. She was a person used to using landmarks in lieu of maps as a guide when traveling.

“Baby, I think it’s this way,” LeBron said in her typical studlike manner, which is just a step above grunting.

“Are you sure? Don’t lead me down the wrong way,” I carefully threatened. I was not about to waste any gas  (at $2.39 a gallon) following her blind notions. LeBron said she knew the way because she went to the same beach as a kid, but I think trying to find your way by sight after many years is not as trustworthy as a Yahoo! map.

She mumbled a “Yes, I’m sure,” but the doubt was written on her face. After a couple moments of uncertainty, she finally conceded and we hit I-10.

The rest of the ride was smooth with me driving around 80 mph, sun still beaming high, just chattering in our easy way, with Robin Thicke providing the soundtrack. It was a nice feeling, having an adventure with the one you love. And when we arrived on the beach strip, LeBron and I couldn’t contain our excitement. It was something we had accomplished together.

“We’re here, baby,” LeBron gushed, and pulled me in for a kiss from her passenger seat.

Now came the hard part: finding a hotel with a vacancy. It was the beginning of the infamous Spring Break season, and we didn’t have a reservation. We rode for the better part of an hour, trying to find a spot on the beach, preferably without the beer-carrying frat dudes or bikini-clad beach bunnies walking in front of us.

Then we found it — the perfect location at the right price, a suite with a full kitchen (oven included!) directly on the beach. The view from our window alone was worth the price, a picturesque scence of crashing waves lapping against the shore. Balmy palm trees swaying in the breeze. Fresh salt air you can’t find anywhere else.

Soon after we checked in, the sun began to set against the eastern sky, a horizon filled with fading hues of orange, purple and pink. I couldn’t imagine a better moment than curling up with LeBron on our balcony, where we blanketed for warmth against the water’s chill that enveloped us. No cell phones, no TV, no qualms — only finding the enjoyment in each other and in the beauty around us.

And that’s what this trip was for.

Lover’s Paradise

My lover and I, namely Lebron, woke up to this view last weekend. Lovely, ain’t it?

We decided to run away from home, take one of those much needed trips to rejuvenate our spirits. It was a last minute decision as we left around 2 on a lazy Saturday afternoon. I usually like to get an earlier start, but as we contemplated spending another weekend in our boring hometown, with “been-there-done-that” attitudes, getting away was the best thing we could have done.

All couples need this time.

Which lead to us against the wind, driving on I-10 toward the beach, LeBron and I facing our first road trip.

It hit a small bump in the beginning, the journey starting with us arguing about how to get there. In her usual masculine superiority, LeBron thought we should take a more scenic route, rather than the congested freeway. But the problem was she wasn’t quite sure of the direction. She was a person used to using landmarks in lieu of maps as a guide when traveling.

“Baby, I think it’s this way,” LeBron said in her typical studlike manner, which is just a step above grunting.

“Are you sure? Don’t lead me down the wrong way,” I carefully threatened. I was not about to waste any gas  (at $2.39 a gallon) following her blind notions. LeBron said she knew the way because she went to the same beach as a kid, but I think trying to find your way by sight after many years is not as trustworthy as a Yahoo! map.

She mumbled a “Yes, I’m sure,” but the doubt was written on her face. After a couple moments of uncertainty, she finally conceded and we hit I-10.

The rest of the ride was smooth with me driving around 80 mph, sun still beaming high, just chattering in our easy way, with Robin Thicke providing the soundtrack. It was a nice feeling, having an adventure with the one you love. And when we arrived on the beach strip, LeBron and I couldn’t contain our excitement. It was something we had accomplished together.

“We’re here, baby,” LeBron gushed, and pulled me in for a kiss from her passenger seat.

Now came the hard part: finding a hotel with a vacancy. It was the beginning of the infamous Spring Break season, and we didn’t have a reservation. We rode for the better part of an hour, trying to find a spot on the beach, preferably without the beer-carrying frat dudes or bikini-clad beach bunnies walking in front of us.

Then we found it — the perfect location at the right price, a suite with a full kitchen (oven included!) directly on the beach. The view from our window alone was worth the price, a picturesque scence of crashing waves lapping against the shore. Balmy palm trees swaying in the breeze. Fresh salt air you can’t find anywhere else.

Soon after we checked in, the sun began to set against the eastern sky, a horizon filled with fading hues of orange, purple and pink. I couldn’t imagine a better moment than curling up with LeBron on our balcony, where we blanketed for warmth against the water’s chill that enveloped us. No cell phones, no TV, no qualms — only finding the enjoyment in each other and in the beauty around us.

And that’s what this trip was for.

“I Know, I’m Kvelling”

A sweet kiss on the forehead. A bouquet of flowers just because. A confession of love with words like “I’ve never felt this way before.”

It’s enough to make your breath stop and have your heart “kvelling” (re: my favorite Clueless reference). Sweet nothings that mean everything are what love is about, romance with passion that makes you swoon with butterflies.

But it seems like nowadays those kinds of sweet sentiments are long gone. It’s considered archaic to tell someone you love them and mean it. It’s old-fashioned to ask someone to be your girlfriend. And eyes are raised if you don’t have sex with your partner within the first month of meeting her.

Blame on society, so be it. We’re a sexualized culture, full of relationships that go nowhere and people who trade partners faster than a new issue of People magazine can hit newsstands.

So when a new crush appears in your life, romancing you and wanting to actually court instead of fuck, why does it baffle us? Why can’t someone genuinely want to tell how she’s feeling—and mean it? Why do we always wait on the other shoe to drop when things are going oh-so-good?

So here’s my million-dollar, Carrie Bradshaw question: Do we not expect romance anymore?

With men and studs alike, women hope for the best but expect the worse. It’s like we wait for the opportunity when our lover will screw us over and we can say, “I knew he wasn’t no good!” And sometimes we go so far as to sabotage our relationship just because things are going a little too well.

I’m trying to just take things slow and truly enjoy the ride with my new stud, who for this blog will be named Lebron.

In the continuing saga of what’s dubbed “my new relationship,” things are interesting. Interesting because Lebron and I are still in the honeymoon stage. You know, that period where we’re trying to figure out pet names and every phone call lasts about 3 hours or more.

What I’ve found is that this time can be wonderful, a moment of discovery. But it can also be scary. Who wants to know that the woman (or man) who wined and dined you for a straight month is really broke and was using his whole check to take you out to T.G.I. Friday’s? And do you really want to know that she has a crazy ex girlfriend still in the picture–one who doesn’t take no for an answer?

I’ve found that Lebron has some habits I can live with, cause who’s perfect? No one. And I’m sure that my slight aggressive femme personality is a source of contention between us sometimes, as she’s stubborn as well.

When we go into a relationship, everyone brings their own baggage–some a small carry-on; others have steamer trunks. It’s just a matter of how much of that bullshit we’re going to let affect our relationship. Trust and honesty are two of the most important ingredients to a blossoming romance, and I prefer to get everything out in the open in the beginning. Even if it means I look like an ass or she doesn’t appear as perfect as she once claimed to be.

Cause I would hate to fall in love with someone who wasn’t even themselves to begin with.

“I Know, I’m Kvelling”

A sweet kiss on the forehead. A bouquet of flowers just because. A confession of love with words like “I’ve never felt this way before.”

It’s enough to make your breath stop and have your heart “kvelling” (re: my favorite Clueless reference). Sweet nothings that mean everything are what love is about, romance with passion that makes you swoon with butterflies.

But it seems like nowadays those kinds of sweet sentiments are long gone. It’s considered archaic to tell someone you love them and mean it. It’s old-fashioned to ask someone to be your girlfriend. And eyes are raised if you don’t have sex with your partner within the first month of meeting her.

Blame on society, so be it. We’re a sexualized culture, full of relationships that go nowhere and people who trade partners faster than a new issue of People magazine can hit newsstands.

So when a new crush appears in your life, romancing you and wanting to actually court instead of fuck, why does it baffle us? Why can’t someone genuinely want to tell how she’s feeling—and mean it? Why do we always wait on the other shoe to drop when things are going oh-so-good?

So here’s my million-dollar, Carrie Bradshaw question: Do we not expect romance anymore?

With men and studs alike, women hope for the best but expect the worse. It’s like we wait for the opportunity when our lover will screw us over and we can say, “I knew he wasn’t no good!” And sometimes we go so far as to sabotage our relationship just because things are going a little too well.

I’m trying to just take things slow and truly enjoy the ride with my new stud, who for this blog will be named Lebron.

In the continuing saga of what’s dubbed “my new relationship,” things are interesting. Interesting because Lebron and I are still in the honeymoon stage. You know, that period where we’re trying to figure out pet names and every phone call lasts about 3 hours or more.

What I’ve found is that this time can be wonderful, a moment of discovery. But it can also be scary. Who wants to know that the woman (or man) who wined and dined you for a straight month is really broke and was using his whole check to take you out to T.G.I. Friday’s? And do you really want to know that she has a crazy ex girlfriend still in the picture–one who doesn’t take no for an answer?

I’ve found that Lebron has some habits I can live with, cause who’s perfect? No one. And I’m sure that my slight aggressive femme personality is a source of contention between us sometimes, as she’s stubborn as well.

When we go into a relationship, everyone brings their own baggage–some a small carry-on; others have steamer trunks. It’s just a matter of how much of that bullshit we’re going to let affect our relationship. Trust and honesty are two of the most important ingredients to a blossoming romance, and I prefer to get everything out in the open in the beginning. Even if it means I look like an ass or she doesn’t appear as perfect as she once claimed to be.

Cause I would hate to fall in love with someone who wasn’t even themselves to begin with.