too many love stories
Ella Fitzgerald - Let's Do It (Let's Fall In Love) from Zoonzin on Vimeo.
One of my major character flaws lies in the fact that I inevitably romanticize most situations, so much so that I consequentially expect these impossibly-perfect, dreamt-up scenes to play out in real life, exactly as I prepared them in my head - sickly sweet poetic remarks and all. Of course, seeing as they are impossibly perfect, I set myself up for disappointment with such a heart as mine which swells at the thought of a small taste of what I’ve witnessed in novels and the cheesy romantic comedies of my choice. Maybe this is the problem - that I have overdosed on too many love stories, rich with beautiful people who know how to show love in extravagantly charming fashions which I have never witnessed firsthand and exude confidence in unreal ways which I have yet to be capable of myself.
Do these stories give me an unrealistic expectation of love? Am I “in love with a fantasy,” as Inez from Midnight in Paris accuses Gil of being? I truly hope not.
I live for unconditional love and friendship and flowers and grand gestures and poetry and playlists and candle-lit dinners and travels and adoration and gentleness and kisses and beauty and firsts and forevers.
I have this belief that love like this exists for me, and I don’t wish to abandon hope on that front. In fact, I would argue that the surplus of romantically-charged fabrications I have allowed myself to consume is not the root of an issue, but rather a gift. It may give me grand expectations, but I don’t necessarily view this as a negative point. I’ve been conditioned through these stories to want the best for myself - I don’t want to settle for a mediocre love. I fully understand that perfection is unattainable, that myriad flaws present themselves in every human being and every relationship, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have a relationship which meets the essential outline of my expectations.
Maybe I’m wrong about this, and I will return, years in the future, to chastise my naïvety and explain my misunderstanding of reality to my past self, but for now I refuse to believe I can’t find someone who I love greatly and who reciprocates this love, I refuse to believe I am incapable of partaking in this kind of love with someone else who desires and deserves it as much as I do, I refuse to reduce my standards in order to finally get together with anyone who will take me, regardless of how many times I must respond to my aunt’s persistent inquiry of “So, do you have a boyfriend yet?” with “Nope, not quite.”
Maybe this is indeed a fallacy of mine, and maybe it will result in myself being eternally single, but if that is the case, so be it. There are more important things for me to worry about, right? As for the case of Too Many Love Stories being a foundation of a flaw or the benefactor of an important bit of sense, I guess the jury is hung and I will be sure to let you know if I ever find myself face-to-face with a verdict.