One of my dearest friends has just fallen in love. Her life right now is filled with the romance of a love fresh and new, a whirlwind of pink roses and champagne and just-because gifts like a cashmere scarf.

Last night while we were making stuffed shells for dinner, Rob commented that this dish always turns out a bit bland. He wondered what we could add to spice it up a bit. And I was slightly taken aback (and okay, slightly defensive) because I had never found our shells to be bland. And he was the one who suggested we have this for dinner and why the hell did he even suggest it if he felt they were too bland? If he didn't even like the damn shells? And of course I said as much to him and he shot me the Sheesh, woman look as he reached for the basil. And as I tried to regain perspective I realized that while he was just talking about the shells, I had transposed his comments to more than just dinner. The champagne bubbles of my friend's love life were going straight to my head.

Established couples often lament the loss of romance. It makes sense, I guess, that with the day in and day out, the zsa zsa zsu fades a bit. That with the laundry and the lawn mowing, a little of the lust is lost.

But Rob and I never had it to lose. Not romance in the traditional sense, anyway. When we met, we were too young for champagne, too cheap for cashmere, and I'm not sure he ever gave me roses. Maybe once. Perhaps his most romantic gesture in those first few months was letting me wear his hat to class. Which, take it from me, is a surefire way to sweep a smitten teenage girl right off her feet. Sure, there was lust - we were high schoolers with hormones, after all. But mostly we were innocent. I remember us getting tipsy on wine one time when his parents weren't home and rolling down the hill outside his house. Over and over and over, laughing until our bellies ached. There was an innocence, and a romance, in being content to just be together.

Last night after dinner we sat around for over an hour, catching up on several issues of Reader's Digest. Rob always reads the jokes to me. Maybe we really are as boring as the stuffed shells, I thought. But soon we were laughing hysterically (more so at the really bad jokes than the good ones and probably even more so at each other) and it occurred to me that this was actually a really nice way to spend the evening. And I thought about how I had teasingly flipped him off during dinner and he had said, "I'm not sure if I should be delighted or concerned that we often flip each other off in this relationship" and I had grinned and said, "Definitely delighted." And I thought about how, while making dinner, we'll sometimes slow dance in the kitchen. And I realized that for us the romance is still in being content to just be together.

I figure when we're 80, we'll still be reading Reader's Digest (large print edition) to each other, we'll still be flipping the bird at each other, we'll still be slow dancing in the kitchen. Hell, we'll probably still be bickering over the stuffed shells recipe. And maybe some people would find that bland. But I think it's incredibly romantic.