I don't know whether I should be writing about something as personal as relationships--or at least, my views on them. For one thing, no one's about to read them. But I might as well just get it out there. It's been on my mind a lot recently, and I just want to sort my thoughts out.
I don't know if I believe in relationships. Or at least, I don't know if I believe in my ability to be in a relationship. I've been blessed by a set of parents who seem very stable in their marriage ("seem" being the operative word here--I can't see inside their heads). They have a partnership that seems more or less equal, they seem to share everything with one another. And, you know, 25 years of marriage is nothing to sneeze at.
It's just...romance. I don't know. If we're going by parents here too, romance has never been all that big for them. They met, they went on some dates, they moved in together, they got married in City Hall with two of their friends as witnesses, they rode the subway back to their apartment in Brooklyn, and that night my dad had rehearsal. "Romance" never really entered into it. Love, sure--it's damn near impossible to make a marriage work for 25 years without love. But no one rode in on a white horse, no roses were delivered, no secret meetings beneath storm-swept trees or kisses stolen while disapproving parents were distracted...
Sometimes I feel like I love my family so much, there isn't any more room for loving another person who is so entirely unrelated to me. This doesn't really make sense, at least by the textbook definition of love. Love should be limitless, bottomless, beautiful and terrible as the dawn, tempestuous as the sea...but now I'm quoting Lord of the Rings, and that's only because I've been meaning to have a Lord of the Rings marathon (if I'm about to feel love for anyone, it's for Aragorn opening those doors...mmmm...)
Distractions. Aragorn and film projects and essays. That's what I keep telling myself it is. You'll be able to find someone you care about, Caitlin, once you stop getting distracted with work, with school, with writing, with television, with every thing you've used as an excuse in the past to try to shield yourself from the fact that you're wasting time, you know you're just twiddling your fingers until...what? Some guy sweeps into your life and steals your heart? You sweep into some guy's life and steal his heart? (No, I think I've done that last one before. It didn't end well.)
And that's the problem. It doesn't end well. It never ends well. The stories lie, that's nothing new--it's a concept that's been explored in every damn romantic comedy since Meg Ryan first batted her eyes. And I've never believed the stories, I know that for a fact.
But fuck. I want to.
That's something that's hard for me to admit, even to myself. Especially to myself. I like to think that I'm some sort of hard-bitten cynic, who lives on sarcasm and the blood of infant puppies. But...I'm not. No one's that cynical without being suicidal, and I'm definitely not suicidal.
I like the idea of the beautiful courtship and the wonderful words and the man on a white horse (of course, I'd also be on a horse. A big gray one. And I'd have a sword and a suit of armor and I'd be able to do magic--but that's another story). The thought of "happily ever after" and "rode off into the sunset" and "in sickness and in health, 'till death do you part" makes me all tingly and giddy. And God, I hate myself for that, but the truth is that I can't help it.
I'm a reluctant romantic. And the thought that romance might not exist kills me.
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