tequila my true love

On my commute into work the other morning, a Pandora ad for some new movie started playing in my headphones. “I will never be good enough for you,” said the actor stud, “but I will spend the rest of my life proving to you that I am.” 

Ugh.

When did romance become an unbearably cheesy portrayal of a man or woman sacrificing their entire life to make the other happy? When did it become romantic to prove yourself to another person? Isn’t the sappy, fulfilling purpose of love to accept one as they are? If someone is going to tell me they’re not good enough for me, I’m probably going to believe them. It’s a stupid thing to say. And if you follow up that point by saying you will prove to me that you are good enough, well now you’re just contradicting yourself. 

Romance is not blockbuster quality. I don’t want flowers on Valentine’s Day because someone told you to buy them for me. I don’t want you to say your whole life is based on whether I am happy or not, because then what are you doing to make yourself happy? Romance could be mailing your vegetarian girlfriend a new flavored Cliff bar because you were at the corner store and thought of her. Romance sometimes is a single rose you found outside the cafe, left on the front stoop because you knew she was having a rough day. Romance is often holding someone until they fall asleep as their nose drips a puddle of snot onto the pillow. Romance is a sad song sung simply because you know the person you’re singing to still loves Ryan Adams. #notembarassed

Sometimes it is cliche, but it is not defined. Still, if you know how I like my eggs made, I’ll be way more fond of you than if you tell me I’m the one you can’t live without. Because you can. I’m sick of advertising and pop culture and outdated social norms defining relationships for us. I’m sick of Cosmo articles “reflecting” upon the worst dates we’ve ever had, because half of them sound like a relatively typical night. (See for yourself.) I’m sick of the rules and games we’re supposed to play, and the timelines we’re supposed to set up. But really, I’m just sick of fucking “romantic dramas” continually warping the minds of too many people into believing that if someone you love is unwilling to sacrifice EVERYTHING ELSE in their life, they must not love you. Because love, romance, none of it is about sacrificing the person you are to please someone else.

It’s not just in movies though. Every day we are trying to prove something: to our bosses, our coworkers, our parents, our friends, most especially to ourselves. My Facebook feed was a barrage of happy wishes and bitter memes yesterday. You can almost smell the roses you’re not going to get? Why can’t you find a nice guy/gal? Valentine’s Day is set up to make one either feel incredibly lucky and special to be with “the one” or to make us feel bad and lonely because there’s no one we’re sharing the commercialism with. Is it really necessary to have one specific day where we either feel the ultimate bliss of coupledom, or the unbearable loneliness of being single? Comparisons like this start to take hold of our lives; we find ourselves online stalking where someone we haven’t spoken to since high school last vacationed to, a childhood friend who is already pregnant with her second child, the promotion our ex got and the number of people that make more money, are more “successful,” are “happier” than us. It’s built into our society to compete, to feel the need to show our self worth, rather than allowing ourselves to falter and flail along the way. Most of us don’t display those moments where we’re just barely treading water to the world; we show the successes.

Some days I am happy and in love. Some days I am sad and in love. Some days I am scared, or anxious, or tired, or excited, but all of those days, I am still in love. I’m in love with sleeping late. I’m in love with burritos. I’m in love with coffee and cigarettes and tequila, even when they’re bad for me. I love people, even if they fart in front of me. (Seriously, I had a middle school teacher tell me once that if a guy farts in front of you, he doesn’t respect you. Seriously.) And I don’t need one predetermined day to prove that I love those things, or to devour that burrito. 

Happy Not Valentine’s Day. And a happy 363 more.