They met at work, she young and pretty, he and young and clever. It started with roses, smiles, silly faces and not-so-funny jokes. Movies on Friday nights, and ice cream sundaes on Sundays.
They met on the highway, in summer traffic; he hit her bumper gently, purposefully, so he could have the chance to ask her out. She hated him at first, cast him as the idiot driver that caused her to miss the beginning moments of a girls’ night. Until she saw her future moments, hand in hand with him.
It’s nauseating how many stories of romance there are out there—I’ve seen my fair share of chick flicks, and I’ll be the first to tell you how much they are a waste of time and a movie screen. They all end the same, always consisting of the same predictable nonsense that makes me briefly lose faith in humanity.
But why? Why do I instantaneously associate nausea with romance? Why do I feel the need to absolutely loathe these kinds of stories? Because I’m afraid of them? Who am I kidding, here?
Here’s the thing (the truth, in fact): if I were given the choice, between dating myself and living the “perfect” single life and a handsome, successful, sociable, funny man, I would pick the latter. Does that make me a fool? A lying, cheap freak? I’ve been duped by the fairy tales of childhood. I admit it. I am a romantic. And I have a terrible, terrible, horribly irksome feeling that I always will be.
I fear that’s the worst diagnosis I’ve ever placed on myself.
The hopeless romantic. The dopey-eyed, naïve, "where’s my prince charming?" girl. Honestly, I don’t blame you if X out of this blog post without so much as a “wait, what did that say?” back click. I’m just another girl who pictures a romantic meet and greet with her future soul mate, a picture perfect moment, an I-can’t-believe-this-is-happening season.
So will pretending I don't care make it hurt less? I mean, what will happen once I finally discover (because I more than certainly will) that romance is always faux? That dreaming like Cinderella leads nowhere but to ignorance and a less respectful bliss? Will being prepared for the worst make the hurt go away? I have too many questions.
I think it’s safe to say that I respect the romantics who actually do find the romance—the Cinderella shoe and the I-don’t-care-if-you-respect-it-or-not bliss. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Not to care what they say, stick my foot out proud, and wait for my glass slipper to come.