Last summer, when I fell for someone (which I am often wont to do, though this time it was different for a variety of mundane reasons I won't parse out here), I began having a successive lineage of daydreams about said person. The most vivid and hopeful was one in which, on his travels abroad in Ireland, I fancied he would buy me a claddagh ring and bring it back for me. Romantic, no?
Yes, but it is also ridiculous. We hardly knew each other, I'm not convinced he knew I liked him and I'm rather certain he didn't even like me. But that didn't matter at the time. Not in my addled brain. All I saw was the possibility of an immensely romantic gesture, and I clung to it like a drowning rat clings to a piece of wood (whoo, rough imagery there. I need to work on my metaphors).
The thing is, I dream of deeply romantic and impossible things. I want to come home and find someone sent me roses. I want to talk with someone under the night's sky and watch the stars come out. I want someone to fall for me before I fall for them.
I would argue that I don't think my romantic notions come from films and books and music, but I admit that would probably be lying. In the legions of romance movies, I don't really think I've seen a ton (but I'm a sucker for Love Actually and Amelie). Romance books, I've read a fair few but I'm rather skeptical of them. Twilight, of course, comes to mind, where Edward really stops being romantic once he starts sounding like a stalker. Harlequin is distracting and absurdest with their utterly impossible (and not even romantic) scenarios and bad illusions to penises. But then there's the case of Jane Eyre. I am utterly obsessed with this book. Should anyone ever call me a little elf as Rochester does to Jane, I will throw myself at their feet (especially if this is accompanied by said individual dressed in drag; seriously, Rochester as the old gypsy woman is the best - why does it always get cut out of the adaptions? Really, guys, we didn't have time for that? Whatever...). I am utterly won over by this book. Which is probably incredibly dangerous (one should not base their ideals on a man who keeps his mad wife locked in the attic, I'm sure).
Then I stopped myself from judging, which I am finally learning to do, and thought this over. Sure the idea of marrying a king may not appeal to me (especially given the lack of monarchies today). But we regard celebrities in much the same light we once did for royalty (but if anyone EVER calls the Hiltons or the Kardashians American Royalty in my presence, I will be forced to smack you). And who's the girl who keeps getting crushes on celebrities and blogs about it?
Balls. I am so dumb. (Or as the 9th Doctor would say, "Look at me, I'm stupid!")
Other than being a terrible hypocrite, I also have a rather active imagination. Combine that with the fact that I apparently am being affected by romantic imagery far more than I think I am, and I am in a deep shit. I have a inclination towards the romantic as it is (at least our idea of romantic; I like poetry and art and I could listen to "Clair de Lune" over and over again. I like talking about literature and music and tea. I like dancing in the rain. I am a walking stereotype without even trying to be one) and so all of this yearning for the romantic just makes it worse.
Not to mention, most of the time my line of thought is something far more like this:
And we're back to an issue similar to that of body image - you can see beauty in others but not in yourself. Here, one can be in love with someone else, but they can't see someone else loving them.
This results in more frustration... but I've rambled on long enough here. More on that later, when I discuss "life ruiners." Yay. (I just had the oddest sensation of myself reading this aloud on some strange educational series as I pretentiously announce, "And next week, in our discussion of fangirls...." I have got to get out of academia.)