My writing Guru, and leader of the infamous Friday Morning Writers’ Group, asked us to write about the best advice that we ever received. I had one heck of a time going through the rolodex of really worthwhile advice, trying to parse it down to the BEST advice ever, when I had my ah-ha moment.
Many, many moons ago when I was a luscious Mediterranean Peach, and desperately in need of love advice, I turned to my Mother’s best friend Carol. Carol was one of the lucky few who seemed to maintain a truly magical romance with her husband. If anyone could steer me in the right direction it was Carol.
The back story on Carol is that she and her first husband were starving artists retuning to the States after spending a year painting in Italy, Spain and Portugal. The only way they could afford to return was by booking passage on a freight ship. The Captain of this freight ship happened to be a dashing Italian whom Carol fell immediately, desperately and hopelessly in love with. Need I say more? Actually much, much more but that alas is a separate blog, or better yet a book, perhaps even a series. Shades of Grey move over… you ain’t seen nothing yet.
Who needs whips, pain and mind games, when there’s a bouillabaisse, simmering seductively on the stove, filling the air with the scent of garlic, sweet shellfish, tomatoes, anise and a hint of saffron. Envision yourself being ravished while your beloved feeds you figs, parmesan and prosecco. Amare!
By the way readers, I did not name myself Mediterranean Peach. The Big Irishman, light of my life, ball and chain, came up with it. This was a big improvement of his last moniker for me, Bubba. There’s no need for me to discuss why that one really irked the crap out of me.
But I digress. Back to the BEST ADVICE EVER story. Way before the Big Irishman swept me off my feet, I was involved in one of those May to December romances. Wondering if the old geeper was Mr. Right, I asked Carol just how important she thought chemistry was in a romance. Without blinking an eye or hesitating for a millisecond. Here’s what she said with complete conviction.
“He should make you absolutely weak in the knees.”
I dumped Mr. December and have held on to that precious advice.
We all know that the heart stopping, hyperventilating, just got to get near that thing, sex, mellows, even with the most fantastic relationship. That’s a given. But what doesn’t have to disappear and should continue to bloom is your true sweet spot. And no, I’m not talking about that Masters and Johnson mystery spot located somewhere between your knees and your belly button, that you couldn’t find with the most detailed MapQuest directions. I’m talking about that satisfying, tingly feeling that says,
“That man is mine, mine, mine!”
The sensation that overwhelms you when he sneaks up on you when you least expect it. When he’s suddenly there, and you see him, take him in, and you’re filled with a happy light from head to toe. The kind of love that makes you absolutely weak in the knees without the help of a feather, lips or fingertips.
That’s my BEST ADVICE EVER!