I’ve read romance novels to the point of gluttony. And I’ve learned a few things, universal truths about men in possession of fortunes, and women in want of men.
First, boy and girl have to meet. Boys see and want, girls fluster and flirt. Rarely do girls relish the nerves; they wait, as if they know the steps to the game, and the boys pursue.
Then the girl puts her foot down. Or life gets in the way. The girl grows up, earns some scars. Her body changes, her mind settles into itself. The woman reconsiders the boy she thought she knew.
The man watches, reconsiders, plots. They always end up together.
It’s romantic and usually I can eat it up with a proverbial spoon. It’s candy. Pretty, insubstantial, overly sweet candy. And I, like the women from the stories, lose out on the point.
See, somewhere between the first rush of nerves and the happily-ever-after, the insidious idea that all women are just waiting for the right man to come knock ‘em into bed still permeates romance novels.
And I hate the reason it does is because we all – men, women, injured, scared and fabulous – just want to be loved.
A new, could-be-amazing someone found me recently. He gets my weird and makes me think. We talk politics, and life choices. We geek out together. I know he likes his coffee, he knows why brown leather belts make me twitch. The nerves and excitement slides along so easily around and about everything, it’s hard to focus on anything not aligning with the magic.
It’s hard to keep my foot down when I’d so love to swept off my feet.
But there’s this thing I keep bumping into. Something not found in romance novels, and something I don’t always know what to do with.
I want to do the whole boy-meets-girl, girl-gets-flustered, boy-and-girl make out thing. I really do. Years have passed since my last long relationship; I’m due. Have broom, should sweep!
But nerves and needs happily ever after do not make. And reactions in passionate moments are great to read about, but suck to live with. Fabio doesn’t do windows, and my life? Honestly, I’d be sad if it read smooth and easy as a romance novel.
Three months ago, this girl waited for a boy to come around, to set her all aflutter and twitterpated. And then… her story changed. Somehow she got shuffled from a bodice-ripping, mind-candy-feasting intellectual into some weird post-modernist essay featuring a broken life with grace twittering around the edges.
Talk about your jarring transitions. But it’s working into a seriously cool story, something worth setting aside fantasy for; something matured and reconsidered. Kind of makes me wonder what happens after the girl falls in love with her own life.
First, boy and girl have to meet. Boys see and want, girls fluster and flirt. Rarely do girls relish the nerves; they wait, as if they know the steps to the game, and the boys pursue.
Then the girl puts her foot down. Or life gets in the way. The girl grows up, earns some scars. Her body changes, her mind settles into itself. The woman reconsiders the boy she thought she knew.
The man watches, reconsiders, plots. They always end up together.
It’s romantic and usually I can eat it up with a proverbial spoon. It’s candy. Pretty, insubstantial, overly sweet candy. And I, like the women from the stories, lose out on the point.
See, somewhere between the first rush of nerves and the happily-ever-after, the insidious idea that all women are just waiting for the right man to come knock ‘em into bed still permeates romance novels.
And I hate the reason it does is because we all – men, women, injured, scared and fabulous – just want to be loved.
A new, could-be-amazing someone found me recently. He gets my weird and makes me think. We talk politics, and life choices. We geek out together. I know he likes his coffee, he knows why brown leather belts make me twitch. The nerves and excitement slides along so easily around and about everything, it’s hard to focus on anything not aligning with the magic.
It’s hard to keep my foot down when I’d so love to swept off my feet.
But there’s this thing I keep bumping into. Something not found in romance novels, and something I don’t always know what to do with.
I want to do the whole boy-meets-girl, girl-gets-flustered, boy-and-girl make out thing. I really do. Years have passed since my last long relationship; I’m due. Have broom, should sweep!
But nerves and needs happily ever after do not make. And reactions in passionate moments are great to read about, but suck to live with. Fabio doesn’t do windows, and my life? Honestly, I’d be sad if it read smooth and easy as a romance novel.
Three months ago, this girl waited for a boy to come around, to set her all aflutter and twitterpated. And then… her story changed. Somehow she got shuffled from a bodice-ripping, mind-candy-feasting intellectual into some weird post-modernist essay featuring a broken life with grace twittering around the edges.
Talk about your jarring transitions. But it’s working into a seriously cool story, something worth setting aside fantasy for; something matured and reconsidered. Kind of makes me wonder what happens after the girl falls in love with her own life.
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