So far, I have lived and thought of my life like I was zapped into a romantic comedy. I have made up fantastical situations in my head about how I was bound to meet the love of my life in some clandestine way. I have thought that we would be in a grocery store and our carts would hit each other or I would spill my coffee on him on my way out of the Starbucks we have always been going to.
However, our paths never seemed to cross. My life, all 19 years of it, so far, have been a complete and utter farce. I fear one of the reasons I have not been out in society is because I have been waiting for my own Mr. Darcy or James Fraser to enter my life and change it all. I guess it is not always rewarding to be a lover of romantic novels.
I have been completely brainwashed into believing that life is just how it is depicted in the movies. How could I have made such a great misconception? How am I supposed to stop pretending that I am Julia Roberts in “Notting Hill” or “Pretty Woman?” Where is my Hugh Grant or my Richard Gere?
I think it is impossible for a self-proclaimed romantic like myself not to let rom-coms rule my life. I want to believe that life is not as crappy as it actually is. I want to believe that love is the center of the universe. I want to believe that falling in love is not a transaction of sex and a few kisses. I want to be utterly and incandescently happy to the point where I believe nothing could possibly go wrong in my life. I want that same happy ending that most of the romantic movies seem to have. I want someone to make me fall apart and yet put me back together. I willingly surrender my soul to romantic novels and comedies for as long as I live at the expense of a grasp on reality because life is so much better when wearing rose-colored glasses.
