I’m Gonna Have To Face It, I’m Addicted To Love
I fancy myself quite a connoisseur of romance. I am a girl who has seen nearly every romantic comedy in existence, whose reading materials of choice consist of happily ever after type articles and books, and who is able to read a romantic undertone into nearly every song she hears. I suppose to say I am a romance connoisseur is an understatement; I am a love-junkie.
It can, and has been argued that the fine line between the real-life reality and expectation of romance, and the “fiction” type I hold on to seems to be a line I have blurred—possibly to an unrecognizable point. To put it simply, I think I might have a problem.
My name is Rory and I am addicted to romance. I am addicted to the idea of romance—the indestructible, all consuming passion for another person. I have fallen in love with every romantic gesture, declaration, and scene from every romantic comedy, I have swooned at every love song written, and I have melted with every romantic note or Hallmark card I’ve seen. I have used romantic comedies, sitcom relationships, happily ever after ending stories and love songs to develop my idea of love that is, well, completely and utterly unrealistic.
It has left me expecting jewelry, gifts, flowers or any combination of the aforementioned on any holiday or any day of the week; expecting large public displays of romance, love and affection; awaiting daily proclamations of love via every possible means of communication; and expecting a general adoration and borderline obsession with me every day.
It has never seemed that far fetched to expect the love of my life to say “you complete me,” and live the rest of our lives without so much as an argument on what to have for dinner. The idea of my man sitting on the end of my bed with his guitar strumming that my body is a wonderland every day does not seem like a lovely product of my imagination. I don’t think that having the love of your life wait around for you while you sort through your personal crap like McDreamy does for Meredith is unreasonable.
I mean really, are those things too much for a girl to ask for?
Apparently they are. This realization was brought to my attention complements of my latest ex-boyfriend; and while I cannot credit him with much else, I think he may have a point here. I think I may fail to see the everyday wonderful that subsequently doesn’t pack the same oomph as say, the final moments between Jack and Rose in Titanic.
So, I ponder. How does a girl who is overly-romanticized overcome her addiction? Well, how does a drug addict stop using? They say no to drugs. So I guess for me, I should say no to faux-romance. I should eliminate all romantic elements, or potentially romantic elements from my life. Cold turkey.
It should be noted that this detox diet is being self-prescribed to a girl who can find romantic implications in a Kanye West song, who melts over jewelry commercials, whose main source of entertainment consists of romantic comedies and sitcoms revolving around “normal” couples and their trivial yet hilarious disagreements which always end up happily ever after; basically I can read a romantic undertone into everything I come across. But for the sake of my love life, I will take a conscious and serious break from any music, movies, television shows, magazine articles, books, commercials — anything that might cause me to drift into an unrealistic expectation of Love.
For one week I will give myself a realistic-romantic make over (or rather make under?)
This temporary lifestyle change being put into effect at midnight makes this the proverbial Fat Tuesday of my week long love-fast, how will I spend the next 24 hours? You know it, a romantic comedy with girlfriends and some red wine.
But as a precursor to my night, I purged all my magazines because those damn jewelry ads and “Five ways to pump up your relationship” are not going to help me this week, and created a “Love Diet Playlist” (which is about 17 songs out of 700 that I cannot find the least bit romantic or will make my mind gravitate to love) and pick up a book by Jack Kerouac — nothing like a little beat lit to distract me.
Let the fasting begin.