Putting the ‘less’ back in ‘hopeless romantic’
Romance ain’t all it’s cracked up to be
TESSA VANDERHART STAFF
The problem with most socalled “hopeless romantics” is that they are actually hopeful romantics. Not me.
No, I have no use for dreams of being swept off my feet, nor do I believe that one day, the perfect man will cross my path and I’ll never look back — though I have, conveniently, drawn him in my notebook and listed his qualities, good and endearingly bad, just in case, you know, this should ever occur.
Still, I don’t think this will actually happen.
I don’t go to sappy movies and wish he was sitting there with me. (Though if he was the type of guy who would sit with me at sappy movies, I’d probably lose respect for him, and, well, that could be disastrous.) I don’t listen to emo and pine for him (instead, I listen to emo and think about what kind of loser listens to emo. Sheesh). I don’t sit around and plan my dream wedding to him, and think of our future children, wondering what we’ll name them and where they’ll go to school (though I do have schools picked out just in case some random bar-room stud ever knocks me up). Also, that would just be silly, and altogether too hopeful; remember, I’m a hope-less romantic.
Still confused? Well, me too: but, like believing in God or Marxism or gravity, my fanatical and completely unfounded belief in my soulmate has never really translated into any desire to wait around for him. Maybe I’m a little too pessimistic; maybe I just took the downfall of the Soviet Union a little too hard (or, more likely, allowed my healthy skepticism of gravity to let me fall a little too hard).
But I’m not being skeptical when I say that I don’t want a relationship. Relationships — real, grown-up relationships — are work. Hard work. Really fucking hard work, for relatively little reward (unless you count smelling smelly boy-feet as a reward). And I’m not that into working during my precious few leisure hours.
Sure, having sex regularly would be nice — as would be having someone to drink with, or, er, go to the movies with — but I’ve found, by and large, that I can rely on friends, my vibrator included, to satisfy these needs.
I’m even kind of enamoured with the idea of becoming a spinster. Sure, the title isn’t really supposed to apply to women under 30, but if my building allowed cats I’d probably have at least one — and that’s got to count for something.
Am I bitter? Sure I am. But not about men. Ugly? Well, I’ll leave that up to your imagination.
But mostly, mostly I’m just spoiled. I’m not saying I deserve perfection, but, heck, I’m not going to settle into one of those couples — you know the ones I’m talking about: when you see two large, balding, hairy men, wearing the same clothes and having a conversation they must have had a million times walking down the street, it’s hard to be optimistic about “keeping things fresh.”
And really, anyone who would have a relationship with me, imperfect and such, would also be imperfect. And, well, I didn’t choose to be imperfect — but why would I actively choose to be with someone who can’t even be bothered to be my ideal man?
So it’s hopeless: no matter how many jerks I think I’m in love with, or that think they’re in love with me, until it’s right — and who knows how I’ll know when it’s right? — my bottle of wine and my notebook-boyfriend and I will be sharing some much needed alone time at my apartment.
Worse still, I’m not entirely sure, if I ever did find someone I could spend the rest of my life with, that I’d know what to do with him.
These days, I’m a relationship realist. I know that my soulmate doesn’t exist; still, I’m just plain too lazy to put up with anything less.
Note: This article is an endorsement for the movie The Last Kiss, paid for by the following message: Zach Braff, will you marry me?
