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It pains me to tell you this because I’ve spent a vast majority of my life telling everyone about how cynical I am, but it’s time I come clean and admit it.
Hi. My name is C@$3! and I am a Stupid Romantic.
I mean, I always knew I had a secret thing for Jane Austen novels (that should have been the first sign), but really this is all coming as a big shock to me. I had no pressing feelings towards marriage. Sure, I cried once at a wedding, but just a little bit. I cry more than that every time I visit my favorite cheese shop or see commercials for fried chicken!
The suspicion was always there… After I’d read a romance novel and hide it under my bed so no one would see. Or when my best friend found The Notebook in my DVD collection and I said it was a gift (it was… but I still watched it!). I’d tell myself that it was just a one-time thing. That it meant nothing and it was ok to be curious about other people’s lifestyles.
I was in denial. I couldn’t even admit it to myself… But I had Romantic Notions.
I didn’t actually even realize it until this weekend. I don’t know… One minute I was talking with my mom about her latest foray into online dating sites marketed towards elderly people, and the next… I realized that all of my idealistic notions about love (especially the ones I didn’t realize I thought) were wrong.
You know. I read a lot of books about varying topics, but I think you’d be hard-pressed to find too many that aren’t, at least in some way, about love. Hell, my little writing adventure here… that’s entirely motivated by love. But there is a huge difference between love and relationships.
I love to write, but I fight my long-term relationship with writing every day. I do the same thing with Le Novio. I fight him every step of the way! Same with friendships… family members, hell, even music.
I refuse to let these things be easy. To let them slip into the stone-cold truth. That life/relationships/love is really not that difficult/dramatic/interesting. It’s like I have always had this idea in my head that my relationships should be more… well, plotted. That my life should be a book or story. That things have to be hard to reach an adequate and emotional resolution.
I think what I’ve realized is that… Love is actually quite boring. I’ve been such a unrealistic romantic–set on “soul mates” and “fighting for us” and “drinking poison” and “deeper connections” and “Mr Darcy in a wet t-shirt”. Really, I think love is, more like “making sure they have their glass of water by bed before they go to sleep because you know their mouth is dry in the morning” and “no, I won’t be upset with you if you sleep on the couch, even though I’d rather have you with me” and “I know when you suggested to everyone that we go get ice cream, even though we didn’t go and you said it was ok, that you really wanted some so here is some Gelato I keep for these occasions.”
Or maybe it’s even more general than that. Whatever it is… it’s been hard to accept the quiet fact of loving someone. It’s just days of deciding to be with one person. Maybe you don’t see into each other’s souls, maybe you do. Maybe sometimes their jokes aren’t funny or they say things that hurt your feelings. Maybe sometimes they offer to buy you dinner and you’re so happy you could faint. But on a day-to-day basis a relationship is wildly uninteresting.
Love is not great literature. Hell, it’s not even a pretty photograph! Love isn’t even worth writing about. Love is a quiet decision… the recognition of the breath of another person.