I do enjoy a good romance. 97% of the time, I'm referring to the ones that are fake and on screen...2.5% of the time I'm referring to the ones that I make up in my head, and the remaining .5% is a mixed bag of: 1) my one-ish relationship; 2) a romp in the sack that ends on a good note; and 3) amazing take-out dinners, with take-out dinners in a very decent lead ahead of the other two. I didn't used to cry at anything I'd see on screen--no sweet movies; or television with a thought provoking, kind, and hopeful message; not even commercials for tutoring services. I'm not sure if it's because sensitivity and sentiment (not to be confused with sediment) grew with age, or because it wasn't even a thought in my mind that whatever romantic and lovely scene that I would see on a screen couldn't or wouldn't ever really happen to me in my life, so there was no need for tears or fears. Because, I so willfully thought, of course super sweet Brad Pitt was going to get hit by a car and die, come back as the Angel of Death, fall in love with me--a doctor with a trust fund, he'd speak Jamaican to my patients, decide he wanted to have me enough to kill me and take me with him to heaven/hell but then decide to spare me after my father (who'd have a British accent) pleaded for him to reconsider, he'd go back to heaven/hell, and then re-emerge unscathed as the Brad Pitt character that got hit by the car in the beginning of the movie, and would come back to life and watch fireworks with me at my dad's mansion in the Hamptons (Meet Joe Black, yes please). And don't be silly, of course that hot senior Jake Ryan would initially not notice me at school because he was dating the hot senior chick with the big boobs, but then he'd track me down at my high-as-a-kite sister's wedding and be waiting outside of the church in a Chicago suburb, his angelic presence only to be revealed when the wedding crowd dispersed, and then he'd whisk me off in his expensive red car, neither of us caring that I was missing the reception, and we'd end up sitting on top of his dining room table with a birthday cake in between us as we made out (and yes, this was going to happen on my 16th birthday like in 16 Candles). Yes, I thought this was all possible in my naïve youth. Damn you, Hollywood, and your trickery embedded in messages of love and hope with hunks!
Cut to, I'm 31 in two-ish weeks, and have never had an actual Valentine. There's been no one who has or would "walk 500 miles and then walk 500 more and then fall down at my door," no John Cusack standing outside of my house with a boombox over his head, no meet-cute with Tom Hanks at the top of the Empire State Building (Sleepless in Seattle/Brentwood?)or in the middle of a New York garden where our meeting after some clandestine email activity (You've Got Mail) was simply, "mmmmagic." Every year, usually twice a year (Valentine's Day and Christmas), another romantic movie premise gets kicked off my list of "Possible Real-Life Love Scenarios" after I watch it and realize that what I'm watching is not how my interactions with the male species have ever gone down. Ever. My romantic life has been closer to Night at the Roxbury meets The Truth About Cats & Dogs meets the first half of Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion meets a Roto Rooter commercial. Yes, that great. So, perhaps it's a no-brainer why I now cry at run of the mill rom-com movies. However, I still have no explanation for tears during Care Bears cartoons or Sylvan Learning commercials.
I'm not all cynicism, though. Even now, as I sit on my couch with my niece's dog (who I am now the legal guardian of, as my niece is off to be all that she can be in the Army), and we both stare at my front door with our sad little hearts, waiting for whoever left our lives to come back to us as a redemptive soundtrack gets bumped up in the background, knowing full well all that awaits is iTunes and half bottle of Belvedere, and the only thing coming through my front door tonight is the sound of CNN blaring from my creepy old neighbor's TV set next door. However, I still have an inner Bridget Jones, that is optimistic. I keep the optimism under wraps more often than not, but it's there, tucked into Spanxy granny briefs four sizes too small in order to impress the hot boy at the party with my artificially flatter tummy, and smooth ass and thighs, in order that he might like what he thinks he sees and stays long after the illusion is gone. It's a very slim glimmer of optimism, slimmer now more than ever (I hope my ass follows suit), but it's present.
Maybe the previously mentioned "not-a-match match" who lived his life (and our "interlude," as it were) as though he were in Jerry Maguire was onto something. Maybe he just wanted the happy ending, where love wins, completes, and has Renee Zellweger at "hello." Though if he really knew me, he would've known I'm not quite as easy as Renee, and it takes a whole lot more than a "hello" to have me. A horse-drawn pumpkin-converted carriage would be a good start, followed by an, "I'm sorry for being a douche" Valentine's Day card (regardless of the day, I'm not that unreasonable) or vice versa.
Interestingly enough, or maybe not, as I type this and finish my fourth vodka based beverage and my cheeks are numb, suddenly anything is possible again. I could be that easy, where a simple knock at the door followed by a "hello" just might suffice, and complete me.
.....unless at my door is the creepy neighbor.
