Okay, I’ll admit it. Despite my distaste of the movie “The Notebook” (I’ve seen it twice; One time I laughed at the ending, and the other time I fell asleep. I obviously have no soul), I really am quite the cornball.
And this post is about to reveal a big part of that. So, enjoy. Try not to barf.
I don’t know if it’s this holly-jolly-holiday season. Or the need to bundle up with sweatshirts that I wish I was borrowing from my hunky gentleman caller. Or the screeching whistle register of Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas is You”. Or perhaps I’m listening to way too much Regina Spektor? But I’m ridiculously love-sick. Completely. Unabashedly. Lovesick.
For some reason, this feeling has hit me like a ton of bricks. I’ve gone all of my nearly twenty years without a semblance of a romantic connection with any boy. No kisses, outside the awkward, wet kisses of 8th grade spin the bottle games on chilly back porches. No boyfriends, outside of awkward two-day flings in 10th grade. No hand-holding, sweater borrowing, or “Should I put my arm on the armrest when he does? Or should I wait?” moments at movie theatres. None. Zilch. Null. Rien. I’ve gotten the occasional come-on at work, in Boston subway cars, and on the beach by creepy men. But nothing of earnest and honest interest.
And it’s been completely fine. I’ve found myself occupied with other activities to fill that up in my adolescence. Teaching myself languages. Memorizing the dialogue to “Princess Diaries” and “Love Actually” and “Billy Madison” . Traveling to various metropolises solo. Crocheting scarves for others. Being happy for my best friends and their boyfriends. Gradually plummeting into asexuality and desiring not to date until I’m 30. And memorizing the words to love songs that I’ve never quite understood.
You see, I think this feeling really hit me a few weeks ago.
For some reason or another, I’m always that friend that friends come to for romantic advice. A job I find myself wanting to say “Um, obviously none of this advice has never helped me? Why do you think I would have good advice, you fool?!?! But no, you should not expect him to buy you tampons after dating for only 2 weeks. Sorry, darling.”. But through my experience as a hackneyed romantic counselor I’ve heard it all when it comes to dating. Or at least close to it. And when one friend came to me needing help with her man-friend, telling me of all the loveliness of their relationship; The crumpled letters stuffed into shoeboxes. The glorious texts that girls are proud to show their lady friends. The coy Facebook chat conversations saved to their hard-drives. The stolen sweatshirts and souvenirs bought by said-gentleman callers on day-trips to the zoo and the like.
That it hit me. Really hard. Like I had gone all through high school and nearly 2 years into my college years without anything resembling anything romantic. That things so sweet like crumpled, saved love notes, and cute texts are actually possible. That they actually exist and happen more often than I think. They don’t just exist in the latest Katherine Heigl movie. And that one day I might be the recipient. And that made me realize so much. That the closest I get to kisses are from my dogs. The closest I get to borrowing sweatshirts are the hand-me down ones I get from my brother when he does the wash wrong and they shrink enough for me to wear
. And the closest I get to spooning is when I arrange my Tempur-pedic pillows into the shape of a human. But someday that might all change, and it really hit me hard how far I’ve drifted away from the possibility of anything so lovely happening to me. It’s become something that I could never imagine happening to me.
And I guess it’s my own fault. I’ve sent it out into the cosmos that No, I Do Not Need Nor Want A Boyfriend. I Do Not Need Arm Candy For Holiday Parties. Or Cute Texts. Or Love Notes. Or Someone To Say Goodnight To. That living vicariously through my friends, quotes about love, Regina Spektor lyrics, and the latest Katherine Heigl movie is enough. All that could happen to me. All of it. I’m not some cat-lady-spinster-nun that some of my friends believe I am, jokingly. And I guess it’s time I retract those statements back from the universe and cosmos. And re-watch all those Katherine Heigl movies and think
“Hellz to the yes, that’s me one day. That’s me! ME, YOU SEE! The So-called Leper-of-love. I too will be there one day. I too will have shoeboxes filled with expertly folded love notes. And stuffed animal seals. And photo-booth pictures. And someone to replace my Tempur-pedic pillows with. And quote the lyrics to “You Can Call me Al” by Paul Simon to me. All of it. One day. So suck it, Cosmos"
And it will be nice. So very nice.
currently listening to ‘dance anthem of the 80’s//regina spektor