“My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun …,” says William Shakespeare in his Sonnet 130. He goes on to describe her as not the loveliest looking young lady on the block. She hasn’t a particularly breathtaking raven-haired beauty. Her face was rather unexceptional in the lack of rosiness of her cheeks.
“Hmm…,” I thought as I read those lines. I figured that I too could describe my college girlfriend, Jane, in much the same manner.
Let’s be real, her face did not launch a thousand ships. And I was not blind. I saw that the young co-ed, Marjorie, with her porcelain complexion and flowing chestnut hair, was a real knockout, and Beverly, with her wine-colored lips which hinted of tasting much the same as a fine Bordeaux, was not a young lass to easily overlook. And to be perfectly honest with myself, I had to concede Jane was not a beauty contest winner … yet … yet … when I first laid eyes on her, I knew that she was the fair damsel for me. Nobody else mattered.
Of all the young ladies who dined in the same cafeteria with me, she stood out as singularly spectacular. I remember the first time I saw her entering the dining hall — wow!
Despite that she was rather short and neither full-bodied nor lithe and statuesque. Despite the reddish hair that grew out of her head, that was neither strawberry blonde, or auburn. And despite not possessing sparkling, teasing eyes, and lack of rosy cheeks, Jane … well … was, for me at least, possessed an electric personality. She radiated in her own unique manner. She had an aura, a miasma of spiritual essence that floated in the air before, that washed over me and left me awestruck.
Other girls I found to be rather silly when they chattered and giggled. I hated giggling. Whenever Jane giggled, however, it stuck me as charming. Besides, I didn’t give a whit how she behaved with her girlfriends. I cared only for how she acted when she was alone with me. More and more, I wanted her to be alone with me. And I alone with her. What a paradise it would be.
Soon the time came when I didn’t want to share her company. I was full of imaginings. Oh, if I could be alone with her at the dining table without her increasingly intrusive friends at her side. Oh, the things we could say! Not that I could in reality. I could say much of anything. Whenever I saw her from a distance, I could so readily recite romantic Shakespearean lines. Up close, I was shy and tongue-tied. It didn’t take me long to realize that I was in love. LOVE! It was wonderful. It was hell.
Also, it didn’t take long for me to understand that there was a huge difference between being in love and love, itself.
Did anyone mention “rose-colored glasses?” I discovered those too. When I fell in love the grass was greener, not only on the other side of the fence, but everywhere. And the sky, it was a brilliant blue. And ordinary sounds were bells ringing in a the air … All songs became love songs when the strains of them fell upon my ears.
Except — and this is a big exception — when harsh words were spoken or when angry accusations were carelessly flung in my direction.
Strange, how shy and speechless I had been when I first met Jane! If I could just say something — anything — to break the ice. I remember how Mom quoted Shakespeare to me in times before, “Faint heart never won a fair lady.”
And so I worked at being articulate, and, of course, with practice I grew better. In fact, I become too out-spoken. I had created a monster in myself. The problem was, and this was a major one, I didn’t have the word “sorry” in my vocabulary. Jane’s and my relationship ran hot and cold in a series of breakups and reconciliations.
If it’s true that opposites attract, this was certainly true with Jane and me. She was fun-loving; I was serious. Her personality was bubbly. In my case, not only did still waters run deep, they weren’t necessarily deep, but very still. I suffered rigor mortise of the emotions at times.
If ever there was a rocky road to love, ours was it. There were days, sometimes, weeks of silence. Long spans of tears and silence interspersed with bouts of recriminations. Sometimes the two of us sharing the blame for our sorry state of affairs. Often, however, pointing fingers, a case of “I said”, “she said.”
My major problem was my limited knowledge of how a couple acts in a relationship. My experience was limited to what I learned from Mom and Dad. Their Saturday morning conflagrations had made an enormous imprint on me. Often, Mom expressed herself by screaming and shouting — even throwing china plates at the kitchen wall. All the while, Dad kept mute or whistled softly.
I knew how to hold my tongue. Jane did too. Therein lay the difficulty. Whenever I was angry or hurt I became tight-lipped and uncommunicative. Whenever Jane cried, if she ever did, it was behind closed doors. I am fairly certain that she did occasionally shed a few tears but never ever in my presence.
That hackneyed old saying, “Love makes the world go around” is true. No matter what emotional trials and tribulations befell Jane and me, the world still turned on its axis , and the sun rose and set each day. The earth steadfastly remained on its path around the sun.
One of Jane’s favorite Bible passages was found in the third chapter of Ecclesiastes, “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the sun … A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.”
Jane and I certainly observed those teachings to the fullest extent.
Here’s another cliche for you, “Love conquers all.” And it does … momentarily at least. And although there were many a dust-up during our winter of discontent, all was well, that ended well by springtime when Jane went with me to our college’s spring formal dance. As we swayed arm-in-arm to the strains of a slow dance, we both knew that we were, indeed, very much in love, and all the previous spats meant nothing, nothing at all. They were simply much ado about nothing.
Williamsburg writer, J. Palmer Whipple, has published several books.
