February 14th is an interesting day of the year. For as long as I can remember, I have always spent it alone watching an early 2000s rom-com, usually starring Hugh Grant or James Marsden.
I am terrible at love. I know this might seem like a condemning statement to make at 19, but I’m pretty sure that something is not right up in the old noggin when it comes to relationships. I get too in my head, or too attached too quickly, or laugh at the wrong time, or say the wrong things, or slip into a bad European accent when nervous (mostly British but sometimes Irish). I have low standards but high expectations—basically a recipe for disaster. I have crippling self-esteem issues, and yet, also a worrying god complex. I once hit multiple things while driving my car on a first date, and simply stared straight ahead and denied all charges (every time I get behind the wheel, I set feminism back a decade. I am so sorry, women). The sixth curb I drove over was a good foreshadowing of the soon demise of a pretty terrible, half-baked situation-ship.
I am so embarrassingly bad when it comes to relationships, to the point that the only justification for me putting myself out there is simply to get a good story out of it. So, with a back pocket full of bad first date anecdotes and a surprisingly good (albeit naive) attitude, I go out to face the world, ready to fall flat on my face every time.
One of the strangest moments of my life was when, after going through a painful breakup, my dad said, “You love too much, that’s why it hurts you so bad.” While that is a crazy thing to say to your daughter while eating Chipotle in the passenger seat of the car you’re teaching her to drive, the reason why it was so bone-chilling was because it almost perfectly mimicked a line from my favorite show Fleabag between the protagonist and her father. He tells her, “I think you know how to love better than any of us, that’s why you find it all so painful.”
Now, my dad has never seen Fleabag, but somehow me and this extremely flawed main character (whom I love more than most people I interact with on a daily basis) have enough in common that both our fathers let out a worried plea hidden in an explanation. He was right, obviously. I do love too much and too hard and too fast. I always have. I came into this world looking for something and someone to place my devotion to. My mom worries about me, and I don’t know how to tell her not to. I’m worried too.
Unfortunately, the dumb (and frankly concerning) silly truth that it all boils down to is, I’ll never change. Even more unfortunate, I don’t want to. While yes, wearing your heart on your sleeve is probably the dumbest thing you could do as a person with a beating heart, what other terribly boring way am I supposed to live life?
When that second week of February rolls around, I know I’ll probably be getting my computer out to watch 27 Dresses or Notting Hill for the thirtieth time, but I love going through life as a hopeless romantic, getting battered and bruised. I love not learning from my mistakes and taking every opportunity to look out of a car window, solemnly listening to Norah Jones. The possibility of love is just simply too exciting and most of the time, it’s never what you expect or how you want it to go (I know because that’s the plot of like 95% of the romcoms I watch). Every relationship I find myself in is either for a story or character development and I’m just happy to be strung along for the ride. Being in love is exciting! Getting heartbroken is exciting! It’s just the human experience. Why do you think there are so many movies about it? I love being stupid in love—I can’t think of a more fun way to go through life.
So, to all the hopeless romantics who are on their own when the clock strikes midnight on February 14th, we’ll get them next time! Or maybe not! Either way, you’ll probably end up with a new icebreaker and a weird aversion to driving in a Seattle neighborhood. Who knows what can happen?