I just read the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy. It’s a naughty-pornographic-go-straight-to-hell-do-not-pass-go set of books that would make Dr. Ruth blush! I describe it as an X-rated version of Twilight, sans vampires. So, of course, I read it.
Books/ movies of this genre make me feel bad about my life. The heroine is always younger/prettier than me, the hero is stronger/richer/more attractive/and better at romance than my husband. According to this new breed of romance, true love is when two perfect people fall so madly in love that no threat of danger or moral depravity will keep them apart.
Take “Fifty.” This man is so beautiful and so rich that the young Ana is totally smitten. Never mind that he wants to hog tie her, beat her like he’s Mike Tyson, and insert varying sizes and shapes of home improvement tools into varying orifices of her body. It’s true love. Much like his vampire doppleganger, Edward, Fifty can show up in a heartbeat to save his beloved from danger, watches her sleep, and professes his love almost constantly (by the way, he is also constantly in a heightened state of arousal… and brandishing weaponry from Home Depot as tools of that trade.) That is romance.
Suddenly I realize, my husband doesn’t watch me sleep, well, once or twice I’ve woken up to him holding a pillow just above my head… He doesn’t come save me from the hordes of men wanting to hurt or have me. Gee, wonder where those men are? Maybe I should start using that check in thing on Facebook so all those men can find me. And usually he’s more likely to snarl about dinner or grouch about bills than to sit around telling me how beautiful I am.
GASP!! We’re not really in love! This isn’t romance! What is this that I’m living?
It’s called real life. Real love happens in real life.
Real love is when you drop a weed-wacker on the hood of your husband’s Porche 911 Carerra and he just wraps his arms around you and says, “It can be fixed.” Um, not that I know about that, or anything. GAH, that
was would be embarassing.
True love is giving birth, gaining weight, losing hair, having indigestion, raising kids, losing loved ones, and countless other ugly experiences, but doing it together.
True love is when you give a box filled with cable ties, clamps, and rope to your husband and he is annoyed and asks, “What needs to be fixed?” Well, I mean, if a wife was crazy enough to try that… **whistles: looks away**
I might write a follow-up set of books to finish the “Fifty” series: Fifty Shades of Baby Poo, Fifty Shiny Stretchmarks, and Fifty Sets of Reading Glasses.
In the meantime, I’m going to go back and reread The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy; that’s the type of romance novel that I can identify with the most.