Here’s a rare thing. Mac talking about L-O-V-E! Yes, I may be a month late on the subject. But, hey, that’s how I roll.
How ’bout a fight to the death with boffer swords instead?
I’d never admit to anyone that I’m a closet romantic. But I have been for as long as I can remember. I usually don’t like stories in any medium (but especially books) that don’t have a bit of romance in them. Sure, it’s annoying when it’s the main plot, but as a side plot, Mac can die a happy girl. And, of course, almost everything she writes has the dreaded R-word. Sometimes too much.
And it makes me want to scream, which is why I’m a closet romantic. I absolutely loathe that part of myself. That’s the girl who gets twitterpated far too easily—the bubbleheaded bimbo who willingly listens to whatever the current object of her affections has to say and agrees with it all, no matter what an idiot he is. Some giggly little brat I don’t even know. But oh, how she loves the drama of it all! The wind in her hair, the whoosh of a cape. The beauty of a love confession. Stars in her eyes, too much air in her brain.
But it’s one of those things I can’t change, no matter how hard I try.
And, you know, at least I get that Twilight was idiotic. It didn’t appeal to my romantic senses, even at my most obnoxious.
Never mind how that didn’t stop me from breaking up with Boyfriend 1 (who was socially awkward, and came off as obsessive) by inventing another guy, who I really considered myself in love with, and wished so badly was real. He was, of course, the hero of all my stories at the time. Say it with me: Gary Stu.
I eventually got over my Stu, and realized what a stu-pid idea that was. And then, in came Big Crush (and later Boyfriend) 2! So much more aloof than 1. Taller. Classier. A better speller! Of course, I was head-over-heels, and my romantic side went crazy. She took over almost completely for two years, and I became the aforementioned giggling ball of a single-digit IQ whenever he was around. Our “relationship” lasted for a month, before he dumped me for one of my best friends.
1 made me feel good about myself—except how he always had his arm around me, making me feel like his Siamese Twin (we even looked alike! Same hair and eye color, within inches of each other’s heights). 2 made me paranoid, because I was never entirely sure about him. I knew he could be a jerk, so I was half-expecting him to give me a big “April Fool!” any second. He was so attractive and so popular among our crowds (AKA the haunted house workers and the down-to-earth drama geeks), while I felt like an awkward outsider, that I was sure he could do better. So why was he settling for me?
Between 1 and 2, I’ve got my share of problems. When I see guys and chicks holding hands or with their arms around each other, I want to tell them to get a room, at the very least. When a guy tells me I’m pretty or asks me out, my initial reaction is to take it as a joke. And just the thought of going on an actual date (I’ve been on a grand total of 2) is terrifying, because what if my idiot romantic side comes out? And I absolutely loathe common human courtship rituals.
Then again, there is hope. Big Crush 3 (who I’m still hung up on) never was even remotely likely to become a boyfriend. He’s six years my senior, and you can very obviously tell—partially because I look about 16. But I got my feelings out of the way and told him, just like a practical, logical, cool-headed chick should. Part of me thinks it was stupid, because things have been awkward between us since, but the other side feels it was the right thing to do. I tied the romantic up in a corner for that one, and pressed on. No heartbreak, no tears. Facing what I fear.
But it’s been over a year since that momentous day. No new Big Crush (the only kind of crushes I really get). And the only guys who want to be around me are buddies from work, my dad, and my male best friend, who is whiny and emotional and very, very annoying (who also claimed he was in love with me). Then again, not many guys ever really wanted to be around me. I have some kind of antisocial vibe going on that drives them away. I have discussed this phenomenon repeatedly with friends.
Still having the romantic side, of course, I do want to fall in love. But it’s terrifying, at the same time. I know it won’t be Happily Ever After. Love takes work, blah blah blah. With me, though, all those little pet peeves about a person (even someone I love) tend to build up—a massive mountain of disappointments that will finally break, leaving me hating those whom I once professed to love. I’ve yet to find a return from that. Time doesn’t fix it.
Worst of all, I’m scared I’d end up like my mother—a crazy woman married to a fantastic guy, but she doesn’t see it, and all she can do is complain about him behind his back—in front of the kids or anyone else who happens to be listening. Taking everything from him, but returning practically nothing.
Between all that, I wonder why I don’t have a boyfriend. And a guy at work bet me I’d be married by this time next year.
Not unless hell freezes over, it would seem.
Writing, not Talking 