All the
(arduous) (tender) (pornographic) affections the couple exhibited on the
trolley got me thinking about our culture’s clichéd notions of romance. While
this list isn’t exhaustive, I think it hits on a few key actions of those
people who are dubbed “romantics.”
1.
Gift-giving, including flowers, chocolates, and teddy
bears.
2.
Personal displays of affection, not to exclude hand-holding,
hugging, kissing, potential grinding, and ass-grabbing;
3.
Cuddling. Lots and lots of cuddling;
4.
Overblown, creative proposals with fireworks, messages
in the sky, etc.;
5.
Cooking a romantic meal, complete with hearty wine and
thick lasagna;
6.
Flirting. Lots and lots and lots of flirting, with
sexual innuendos and coy hints
If
I were to rank how romantic I am
based on the above banal clichés, I’d be on the bottom rung. My personality and
mindset just aren’t compatible with romantic gestures. Flowers, for example, belong in the ground,
not in a vase on a table where they suffocate from lack of nutrients. Chocolate,
like much of my Halloween candy over the years, either sits in a bag forever,
or gets offered to my mom; eating it just doesn’t interest me, so why should I
buy it? I want to skewer Valentine’s Day balloons with a harpoon, not because
I’m “anti-love” but because I’m “anti-greeting card holidays.” Gift-giving,
though nice, sends the wrong message. I don’t want to buy your love; I want you to love my personality (and body), not my
wallet. If you have to buy gifts to get your significant other to pay attention
to you, they’re not worth it.
Though I’m not someone who
sneers at couples kissing in public, personal displays of affection that
resemble heavy petting will never be tolerated by me. That should be done
behind closed doors, not in view of anyone. A man with political aspirations
has to be mindful of what others’ think (to an extent).
For
another of my romantic problems, we go to my bedroom. My sleep form resembles
that of a dead man. I lie on my back, arms folded over one another. It is the
furthest thing from romantic, and it definitely doesn’t solicit a cuddle. I get
a good night’s sleep from it, and if I were to sleep on my side, I’d wake up
cranky and sore. Let’s just say I’m getting practice for when I’m in a coffin.
Because
I am such a literal person, I also don’t get hints. At all. “Do you want to
watch a movie?” means “Do you want to watch a movie?” to me, not “I don’t want
to watch a movie,” or “I want to watch a movie while I stick my tongue down
your throat.”
For
a literary fanatic, I take words at face value quite frequently, like “Can you
drive with one hand?” “Of course I can,” I’ll say, “Man, what a stupid
question.” Yup, instead of being cute, you’ll just have to ask to hold my hand.
Really, the only criterion from
above which could give me an edge in my ranking of romantics is the cooking.
I’m not a gourmet chef, but I try, which I guess is adorable. Of course,
dropping out of culinary school takes that down a notch.
Taking into account my inability (or
outright refusal) to conform to romantic labels in my personal life, it comes
as no surprise that romance in my writing is lackluster and dull. Most love stories
end up half-written, banished to the “Unfinished” folder on my desktop. Though,
there was one romance I did finish…as a homicide.
My first, and most “successful” love
story was written in 2009 for a freshman-level creative writing course. New Year’s Eve was everything a hardcore
romantic cliché reader would want, except for sex and a cover with a hunky,
shirtless man on it. Filled with a plethora of pretty words, it told the story
of a young man and the nerves he felt minutes before he was to propose to his
girlfriend. Our love-struck main character sent a message to his girlfriend to
meet him in the dining room of the cruise ship they were staying on, but panic
set in when he couldn’t find her there! Oh, no! What will he do? He hurried out
on deck and, just as the clock struck midnight, he slid down onto one knee in
front of her. Fireworks erupted in a display of sheer magic. She said yes, and
they both embraced as nearby passengers clapped and cheered.
How romantic! How beautiful! How
utterly awful and boring!
At the time, I was incredibly proud
of my story, and why shouldn’t I be? It was my first time delving into the
subject, and my classmates enjoyed it. One girl absolutely gushed over
everything about it. I remember her commandeering the workshop discussion,
pointing out how poetic and beautiful and lovely and amazing it was. Her face
became flushed as she continued to elaborate on how ingenious it was for me to
compare the main character’s love for the girl to a puzzle that was missing one
key piece to completion.
My head swelled. I am so romantic! I’m a stud-muffin, for
sure, I thought.
That
story was the last time I really explored love, aside from the tale that ended
up being a love-turned-horror story. I diverted my attention to satire and
realism instead. What I lacked in romance, I made up for in writing about
bleak, depressing real-life.
Of
course, my lack of writing in the subject of love and romance doesn’t mean I
want to be a bachelor my entire life, or that I’m disinterested.
You
see, one day I’d love (pun intended) to craft a love story, not one with the
conventional guy-loses-girl, gets-girl-back cliché, or any of that nonsense.
This love story won’t have a New Year’s Eve kiss, a firework proposal, or what
could be construed as sexual acts on public transportation. Nope, I have my eye
on writing a love story that emulates the relationship of the two men I saw on
that trolley one summer in Laguna Beach, one in which love is developed from
years of strong friendship, complimented by soulful glances and gentle
hand-holding. That’s the story I want to write.
Maybe
if I’m lucky, I’ll get to experience it, too.
No comments:
Post a Comment