Dance with me

My parents are taking dance lessons.

I think it's the sweetest thing.

They just had their first class on Monday, where they learned the box step from an older fellow who's been dancing most of his life.

They say it's something they can do together once a week, taking a break together from the busyness life throws at them when they're apart.

I say it's romantic. They just celebrated their 29th anniversary. I just marked my first. It's hard for me to picture being by someone's side that long, experiencing life and all of its triumphs, all of its troubles. I wonder what it will be like to buy our first house, to see my husband become a father, to watch lines grow on his face — and mine ...

I think my mom probably wondered the same things, quietly. I want to be able to, like the two of them, not let the day-to-day wear on our relationship; to keep that spark faintly lit, even when kids come along, bills show up unexpectedly, plans get changed. That's probably why I still have wedding pictures on my desk, 15 months later. I never want to forget how emotionally overwhelmed I was that day. It was wonderful.

Because when laundry piles up, cleaning calls, groceries have to be bought, dinner needs to be made, meetings need to be attended ... it can be emotionally overwhelming, too. And then it's not wonderful. Still, we strive through the difficulty, all the while reaching for romance ... and finding it.

That's why the dance lessons seem so endearing, so intimate, so dependent on patience and trust to keep steps in sync.

It's the perfect metaphor of marriage.