Did Groucho Understand the Difference?

It won’t have gone unnoticed that the subject of romance has been a recurring theme in recent posts. The reason is simple enough. Having thought that I'd left behind the twilight regions in which the imp of romance lurks, I was savagely ambushed by the little fellow recently. It was sudden and unexpected, it took me completely by surprise, and the means necessary for dealing with it had gone into a state of torpor because I thought I wouldn’t need them again. The result was that old weaknesses were exposed and old wounds re-opened. It wasn’t pleasant.

I should like to let this little leitmotif rest in peace now, and that’s what I intend to do. Unless, that is, the imp has not retreated to his lair in some faraway land, but is simply hiding somewhere. Should he assault me again, I might have to ask your indulgence in putting up with more tedious posts on the matter. And, of course, if I find something to say that I think is interesting, I might resurrect the subject for the right reasons.

One thing occurs to me already. I remember reading a quotation from Groucho Marx once, and thinking that it was amusingly appropriate to one of the difficulties I have with romance:

I wouldn’t want to be a member of any club that would have me as a member.

Make of it what you will, but I offer a clue. It’s all to do with acceptance sowing the seed of rejection. I don’t think it should be difficult to work out, not if you understand the difference between a romantic and a Romantic.