I watched Pride and Prejudice (the 2006 movie) the other night on DVD. Others have told me that the movie is far inferior to the TV series, but, having never seen the series, I can only discuss the movie. Which I loved (romantic fool that I am!).
Fatty watched with me, and in fact it was he who bought the DVD for us to watch. Fatty is a blokey bloke who loves football, doesn't listen well, and forgets his friends' birthdays. Yet he has another side to him - he enjoys a good drama, especially poignant ones. Like me, he finds human relationships interesting to observe on screen.
There we sat on our smallish couch, glued to the scenes of love torn asunder and of unrequited love. We were riveted. It was all so windswept, so passionate, so .... utterly romantic. I kept glancing across at my kind, crinkly-eyed, handsome husband and thinking how glad I am that he asked me out, that he fell in love with me, too; how happy I am that he wanted to marry me.
I like to think that most people have their own love story - even if was a love that eventually died. Even if the memories have faded, or the love has become a little stale, the embers remain. I believe that almost everyone has felt that deep and overwhelming emotion at some time in their life.
Sometimes, being married becomes a habit, becomes humdrum and routine. I forget to thank my lucky stars that not only did I meet a caring, cute and clever man - he also (woo-hoo!) thought I was not so bad either. Watching the tortured agony of thwarted love onscreen reminded me to be grateful. I hugged Fatty tight and held his hand. I remembered that our little love story began with fireworks but goes on with daily affection and constancy. I remembered that the spark is still there, and merely needs fanning from time to time.
Thank goodness for Fatty. He is my one and only.