When I was younger, my mom and I would spend hours snuggled up on the couch watching romantic comedies. Any time I was feeling down, it was time to turn to Heath Ledger in 10 Things I Hate About You, Hugh Grant in Notting Hill, or Molly Ringwald in Pretty in Pink. For every situation, there was a rom-com that would make everything better. I was entranced by the big, sweeping romantic gestures, the confessions in the rain, and the groveling for love.
It didn’t stop with movies, though. As I got older, I fell in love with reading, and eventually discovered romance books. I read so many, constantly envisioning myself in every scenario. Books showed a deeper love than movies. They showed an unconditional kind of love, one where characters would still be there for each other despite their deepest flaws. This is something I think we all yearn for, the act of being accepted and appreciated even in our darkest moments.
At this point in my life, it’s fair to say my standards are pretty high. It’s hard not to wish for a romance as grand and enchanting as the ones I have consistently watched and read about. Despite my wishing and dreaming, though, I have yet to fall in love.
By consuming so much media that portrays love as this all-encompassing feeling, with a sweeping story behind it, it’s difficult to separate that perception from real life. When looking at the state of the world right now, I understand that most people meet on dating apps or through friends of friends, but I still yearn for my meet-cute. I still want my big sweeping story.
In this way, movies and books have taught me to dream, but they have also taught me disappointment. Comparing real life to fiction is, unfortunately, extremely unrealistic. I look around and am reminded that I live in a world where hookup culture is the norm and slow burns are improbable.
Even though I know that most real love stories pale in comparison to the ones depicted on screen or in pages, I still find myself believing that I could be the exception, that I might have a love story as beautiful as the ones I dream about. At the same time, though, I wonder if that is simply a fantasy and if it is time to face reality. It’s hard to decide whether I’m being fantastical or delusional, or if I’m being cynical or realistic.
Overall, the novels and films I’ve watched have impacted the way I view love drastically. It has made me a hopeless romantic and a dreamer. I couldn’t tell you if this is a good thing or not, if I’ve made my expectations so lofty that I’ll never be satisfied, or if those very expectations will find me exactly what I’m looking for. All I know is that I love romantic comedies and that I will continue to dream of my own.