Romance is for Suckers

I know what you’re thinking, and it’s probably along the lines of a good eye roll and the words this bitch flashing through your mind. You’ll be happy to know that this is not another sad high school story about Miss Nancy No Friends not getting invited to the school dance—except it sort of is because that shit is gold. No matter what kind of story it is, it’s a true story, and one every girl can relate to. A story filled with murder and intrigue, seduction and affairs. It’s the story of Romance’s brutal demise, her untimely ending. The culprit: collegiate institutions, social media, Miley Cyrus, you and your phone and the awkwardness that is texting. I’m talking to you, honey. You, in your crop top with your half empty tequila bottle and your heart full of hope. We are the reason that romance is for suckers. Maybe I should explain: 

I’ve always thought that I should have been born in a different decade. In a different decade my social awkwardness might have been considered endearing, my preference in men a bit more wholesome. I grew up fantasizing about the likes of David Boreanaz, Luke Perry, and Rider Strong. Misunderstood rebels with hearts of gold—these were the building blocks for my perfect man. Sure, they might not hold your hand, but they would lend you their jean jacket—or in David’s case, a button-down made of satin and eternal angst—any time. They were men of few words and bold romantic gestures. Now, the most romantic gesture a man can give you is a snap chat of his dick. Call me unreasonable, but my expectations for romance are a little higher than that. I credit some of this to my parents. High school sweethearts and still together after thirty something years, they are a complete anomaly in a world where divorce rates are skyrocketing and broken homes are becoming the norm. Their love for each other is inspiring, and yet, totally unrealistic. My mother met my father when she was a whopping fifteen years old. At fifteen the only male suitor in my life was Nathan Scott, a character from the popular television show One Tree Hill. Real boys paid me absolutely no attention. Though my parents are partially to blame for my expectations, the decade I was born in proved to be just as crippling.

As a child of the nineties I was introduced to healthy, wholesome relationships, a la Cory Matthews and Topanga Lawrence. The way they fell in love was easy, and while the couple encountered their fair share of relationship problems, their issues were always neatly resolved in a humor filled thirty-minute episode.  I remember staring up at the TV in my jean-on-jean ensemble and feeling jittery with anticipation. I couldn’t wait to be a teenager and fall in love and live happily every after. Clearly, I was doomed from the beginning.

By the time I was old enough to have my own relationship, the world had already taken a drastic turn for the worst. Now, dating is an activity of the past, replaced by the mind-fuck that is “hanging out.” No one holds hands anymore; they update their Facebook statuses. Talking all night on the phone? We have Twitter for that, because nothing says love like 140 characters or less. What happened to Sadie Hawkins dances and boys letting you wear their letterman jackets? I’ve waited patiently, biding my time, pining after men who no longer exist, only to be sorely disappointed. Where is the freaking romance anymore?

The worst part about this new romantic movement, the absolute most heartbreaking component of dating in today’s world: the dialogue. Perhaps, it’s just the constant flow of Adderall and booze spinning through our blood stream, or perhaps we really are an apathetic generation—either way we’ve failed miserably when it comes to communicating with our peers. The language is just as flowery and intricate as it was back in Shakespeare’s day, and filled with just as much bullshit too. We have a way of spinning things in such beautifully vague terms, that we have no idea where we actually stand with our significant others. Everyone is a tease, unsure of commitment, and feverishly jealous of other people’s relationships. We want to be both available and unavailable and we don’t want anyone to confuse the two. You’re either a single lady or a married bore, and both make you want to slit your wrists with your own nail file. We are lost in translation. Literally.

So I pine for the nineties, the generation I was born into, the generation I will forever feel most connected to. I pine for the nineties and its VCRS, its cell phones that are really just cordless cinder blocks, and its nostalgic romantic bliss. It was a different time, maybe even a simpler time. Now we have iPhones, facebook accounts, and Twitter followers. Now we have ruined Romance. We killed her with our hashtags, our abbreviated language, and our affinities toward anything dramatic and labeled “reality.” We laugh when we read Total Frat Movement’s completely accurate description of college dating. We giggle over red wine when we watch those bachelor bitties vying over a man who needs subtitles to be understood. We are pompous and way too assured in our own romantic prospects. Here’s the thing: we may have grown up on young, wholesome love but we went through puberty during the Age of Bullshit. We duked it out with the worst of them, and we are still here to tell the tale. We may be that girl in the crop top drunk on tequila and the promise of The One, but we hold our heads fucking high while we do it. We are not suckers for love.