The Death of a Hopeless Romantic

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I learned about love from Disney Princess movies. Millions of people grew up watching Prince Eric fall in love with a voiceless Ariel while a lobster sang lusty songs. We watched Cinderella dance with Prince Phillip in the forest, their voices combining in the perfect harmony. I sat in front of the VCR TV in my room night after night watching closely as Pocahontas threw herself over the cowering figure of John Smith. 

Romance was big, beautiful and needed grand gestures. 

I made my barbies fall in love. My singular ken doll fought epic battles to save his princess and it ended with a passionate make-out session that involved smashing my barbies’ faces together. I was a princess girl at heart. I reject the term “boy crazy” (ridiculous, heteronormative term) and choose to consider myself a romantic. There is nothing wrong with longing for romance, or daydreaming about the prince or princess who will sweep you off your feet, and later the sexy vampire who will painstakingly give you up in order to protect you (As a former English major, I will unabashedly declare that the Twilight series is wonderful). 

I eat, breathe and sleep romance.

My passion for love and all things romantic endowed me with an excellent imagination as a child, and I relish the countless moments I spent with my head against the car window, daydreaming magical and romantic encounters on long car rides. As a child and later a teenager, the love stories I read about and made up in my head were better than the real thing. 

I knew that nobody would compare to the love interest I dreamed about. When I crushed on someone, I made up personalities that were too perfect for them to actually possess. No one would match up to my daydreams quite like Edward or Rhysand or even Jon Snow. 

At one point, romanticization isn’t enough. We all want a real partner, someone to fall in love with who doesn’t reside between the pages of a book or live out their life on the screen. 

I prepared for my first kiss with unmatchable excitement. I thought the guy was cute enough. He was interested in me, and I thought he kind of looked like Henry Cavill if you really squinted. This could be the person for me.

So I had my first kiss in my parents’ basement with “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” playing in the background. Sure, it wasn’t as magical as the kiss between Aquamarine and Raymond, but it was a kiss. 

Instead of passionately losing myself in his lips, I found myself mildly discomforted by his overeager use of tongue. My brain was definitely working, and it bounced between thoughts of how excited I was to tell my friends about this to the sexy sound of Danny Devito’s voice. 

Okay, my first kiss was a little disappointing. This was to be expected. I waited with excitement for romantic dates to ensue. Instead, I got to learn what getting ghosted felt like, which I suppose is just as important.

I don’t think I need to describe the failures of my love life; We all have enough first-hand memories to relive. As I grew up and added to the list of “this isn’t what I imagined,” my hopeless romantic gene suffered more and more. Like a puppy whose owners grow disinterested once it loses the cute puppy face, the romance kernel inside of me grew more cynical. 

It was easier to abandon those daydreams, put down the romance novels and turn off the Netflix rom-coms. As trivial as it may sound, the disappointment broke a little part of me each time. I believed in love, but I no longer had faith in the kind that would make you swoon. Romance was abandoned for quickies and lustful encounters and ghosting after the first date. Even first dates were few and far between. Nudes became the equivalent of love letters, and I counted myself lucky if they even paid for my dinner. 

I grabbed my hopeless romantic gene and squashed it down until it resembled no part of itself. Why lament the daydreams I had already lost? It would only lead to sadness, disappointment, shame and regret. Twilight was nothing more than a poorly-made movie sequel, and the book series was too long to reread anyway. 

In every good romance novel, conflict drags the love interests apart in act three. No story is worth anything without a little turmoil. 

The great thing about my hopeless romantic gene, is that it never completely disappeared. We’re all suckers for a good love story, and eventually I found my own. Not just in the form of a romantic partner, because those aren’t always permanent, but in the way I lived my life. 

I think it was easy to focus too much on the romantic love in every story. Sure, it dominates rom-coms and novels, but that is not the only characteristic. Good romance novels have settings that come to life, whether it’s a gloomy, small town in Washington state, or a tropical beach honeymoon that was meant for a married couple and haphazardly bestowed upon a pair of enemies-to-lovers. 

There should be wonderful characters who get their own spin-off love stories. There should be kooky family members and wise teachers and pets who make mischief. There is character development and self-realizations. In fact, one might argue that the most insignificant part of any romance novel should be the love interest. 

Perhaps I over exaggerated there. Of course people want a love interest, but I realized that my personal love story was filled with a lot more than a prince to sweep me off my feet. My love story has adorable coffee shops with delicious drinks and a train that passes by every so often. It has the sweetest, wildest dog. It has people who make everyday worth living, and a career that I get to strive for. 

My love story doesn’t have pirates or vampires or tortured princes, but it does have love, and I think that’s the most important part of any story. 

Strike out,

Writer: Olivia Wakim

Athens, Georgia