Confessions of a Hopeless Romantic

Angela Strong
Aug 11
3 min read

The night I met my husband, we made eye contact across a firepit, and I thought, "If anything ever happens between us, I will remember this moment forever." Something happened, and now, not only do I remember, but I like to tell this story every year on our anniversary.

I brought it up last week as we celebrated fourteen years by staying home and doing absolutely nothing. (With our crazy schedules, this was a real treat.) He responded by saying, "You're quite the hopeless romantic." And I didn't argue at first.

Being a hopeless romantic supposedly makes us a good fit for each other. I watched a video about the types of couples who are most likely to end up together. One of the best matches is "the hopeless romantic" and "the hobbyist." Jim has so many hobbies that even if I weren't flying across the country as a flight attendant four days out of the week, I probably still wouldn't see him much because he'd be bowling, golfing, riding his motorcycle, or announcing hockey games. (These hobbies change periodically, but there are always this many.)

Besides making me a good fit for Jim, being a hopeless romantic should also make me good at writing romance. I'm naturally daydreaming about love and marriage all the time, so when I sit down to write, I have a lot to say.

But romanticizing life can lead to some shocking realizations when the rose-colored glasses fall off. For example, when Jim first considered buying a motorcycle, he asked, "Is this too much?" I responded, "Honey, I write romance." Motorcycles are practically a requirement for dashing heroes, and I imagined the two of us riding off into the sunset.

Thus, I ended up at the biggest biker rally in the world last week. (Okay, I didn't ride all the way to Sturgis, South Dakota, but I flew to meet Jim...and 700,000 of my closest biker friends.)

I romanticized the trip as much as possible. We rode through gorgeous forests and mountains. I researched the history of Custer and Crazy Horse. We watched lightning storms from the hot tub. And I led a few big guys (and a little biker grandma) in a yoga routine at our Airbnb.

But riding that much is hard--even as a passenger princess. I got headaches from wearing a helmet for so long. My whole body stiffened up from all the time in a saddle. I ate too much and didn't sleep as well as I should have. My hair was ratted. My skin sunburned. And I purposely dehydrated myself, so I didn't have to stop and pee on the side of the road. All of this affected my immune system, and I came home with a cold that turned into an ear infection. Not the stuff of romance novels.

Would I do it all over again? You bet I would.

I'd eat an ice cream cone at the bar. I'd wear Lauran Ingalls Wilder braids with my leather chaps. I'd let the stranger handing out Bibles pray for us. And I'd sing worship songs into my helmet where nobody could hear me over the sound of revving engines.

Bikers get a bad rap, and on past trips, I've heard strangers declare, "I hate bikers" when I walk past. But Sturgis wasn't like this. Their businesses hung welcome signs for everyone riding into town. They showed love and acceptance to the rowdy crowds. Which is what I want for everyone.

Give me your worst, and I'll keep praying for the best. Because, as it turns out, I'm not a hopeless romantic after all. I'm a hopeful romantic.