“Love is a lot like a backache: it doesn’t show up on X-rays, but you know it’s there.” ~ George Burns

I had a clear view of their arms and hands, his hand on top, holding hers, on the console between their airplane seats in First Class.  He was wearing a mustard-colored golf shirt.  There was a halo of light hair floating above his tanned arms, and he sported a large gold watch on his right arm.  I couldn’t see her left hand, as it was covered by his, but I could see the fine gauge knit of her ivory shirt and just a hint of her pale, freckled arm above her wrist.

And then he leaned toward her, and I saw his thin, wiry grey hair and his wire-rimmed glasses. Then she leaned toward him,  revealing her reading glasses perched on top of her highlighted hair camouflaging (I was sure) the grey.

And then, like a scene in a soap opera, he lifted their holding hands to his lips and twisted the knot to kiss her hand.

Seriously?

And I thought not, how sweet, but how weird.

Their holding hands returned to the console, and she untangled hers from his to take a sip of her white wine from the unstemmed glass (glass!) they provide up there. Her three-carat diamond wedding twinkled.

And then they leaned toward each other, talking, conspiratorially, it seemed to me, and the next thing I knew, they were holding hands again, his hand over hers.  And then he lifted her hand and kissed it again.

He does it two more times, within a couple minutes. The hands return to the console, his holding hers, hers on the bottom of their hand sandwich.

Do they hand out blue pills along with the pretzels up there?

And, I am ashamed to say, I don’t think it’s sweet or tender.  I just marvel at the fact that she lets him imprison her hand like that when she could be drinking with wild abandon or turning the pages of the book.  I think Get a room and For Pete’s sake and, finally, What’s wrong with us?

What could explain a couple our age holding hands and kissing this way four times in as many minutes?

Perhaps they are newlyweds.  They have found each other after losing spouses from long illnesses.  They never thought they’d find love again, but here they are, together on their way to Mexico for their honeymoon.

Possibly, they are in the CIA, posing as a long-married couple (unconvincingly, I might add), heading to Mexico to do some undercover work with the drug cartel.

Perhaps this is a reality (yeah, right) TV show, and there is a camera hidden behind me capturing this scripted moment between these old people, people as old as we are.

Or maybe, just maybe, they are a romantic couple who still, after many years, hold hands for hours and look longingly into each other’s eyes.

My husband would probably like to hold my hand for hours like this couple, and sometimes he lifts our pair of hands and kisses my fingers, and I think, yuck, like a five-year-old boy forced to watch a romantic movie.

Yes, Rick is the romantic one, the one who kisses me, not just when he leaves for a week-long photo trip, not just when he goes to a soccer game, but when he leaves a room.

He says, “I love you,” a dozen times a day.  There are always flowers for birthdays and anniversaries and Valentine’s Day, even for Sweetest Day until I put a stop to it:  “That’s just a commercial holiday the florists made up,” I said.  “Don’t be a sucker.”

I know this is a flaw.  What keeps me from extending or accepting romantic overtures?  Why do I end up saying, “Back atcha,” when my husband verbalizes his love.  I do think on those occasions, gotta be the first to say that sometime, but I almost never am. I should be the one to kiss him for no reason at all.  I should be the one to grab his hand and be the last to let go.

I recently had my engagement ring “stretched,” as they say in the jewelry biz, to accommodate my arthritic knuckle.  “Please,” I say to Matt Faigle, “can you avoid cutting through the engraving?  It’s the date when we got engaged.”

Matt is young, about the age of my kids, and he squints through that little magnifier thingie he has in front of his eye. “Mrs. Lingo, I can’t quite make out the date.  What is it?”

And of course I don’t know because I am a brick, but I know my husband does and will remember to mention it this coming December, 47 years after I put it on in Evansville, Indiana.

1971 version of a selfie

(Incidentally, this is the ring I selected and ordered on my own, and left only the payment to Rick.)

Can a person like me become a romantic, truly become one?

My dad, as gruff as he was, was the romantic in his marriage with my mom, spending a lot of time selecting the perfect cards and gifts for my mom.

I remember one year my dad bought a beautiful opal ring for my mother’s Christmas gift.  He was proud of himself and of the generosity and thoughtfulness of his gesture.  He showed it to my brother and me before he asked me to wrap it.  The three of us were giddy with anticipation of her reaction when she opened the gift.

My mother’s face remained slack when she saw the ring.  After what seemed to be an hour she said, “Opal isn’t my birthstone.  It’s bad luck to wear an opal if it’s not your birthstone.  Thank you, but I can’t wear it.”

I will remember this as the worst of all Christmases.  I was furious with her and so sad for my dad.  Looking back, though, I wonder if this is how I became a brick: I am my mother’s daughter.

My husband may have gotten used to my brand of romantic love:  How I change the head of his electric toothbrush when the bristles are splayed  How I warm the hand lotion between my palms before slathering it on his scaly back.  How I bleach his white comb after I use it to dye my hair.  How I make cookies for him even when I’m dieting..

And isn’t it pretty romantic that I am saying in print, right now, in front of thousands of strangers, “I think I’ll keep you”?

On the day I watched our Romeo and Juliet in First Class, I made up my mind that I would hold Rick’s hand all the way back from Mexico. And I would kiss it.

But I didn’t.

We were in separate rows so we could both get window seats, just like I requested.

Yes, I’m a brick.

Some other posts about love and marriage you might enjoy:
Making Love:  The Truth About a 43-year Marriage
How to Travel With Your Husband Without Killing Him
I Know the Secret to a Long Marriage. No Lie!
The Absolutely True Story About My Grandpa’s Disappearance in the Smoky Mountains
Never Marry a Thin Man
You’re So Vain, You Probably Think This Blog is About You
Three Weddings:  A Secret One; A Surprise One; A Long-Awaited One

The girls in the dorm decorated my door for my wedding shower (which involved an actual shower)