Romance is Dead

The other day I got off work at about 1 in the morning (on a Tuesday)!  But before heading home and after the DJ left, I needed a beat to complete closing tasks to. I placed my phone on the work station and blared whatever was queued, which happened to be early 2000s music. 

As Cheerleader by OMI played, coworkers around me started to vibe. I had intended it just for me, but didn’t want to isolate myself by using headphones. Quite the opposite happened. There was whistling, there was reminiscing, there was bopping. All to the tune of the song playing from my phone. 

Though it was catchy and nostalgic for me, I internally couldn't get down to it like I used to. Because I was thinking about what it’s like to be a guy’s cheerleader. And not have them return the favor. A place I’ve found myself in, too many times. But no more. 

A similar experience to the song happened when I read the Shakespearean love poem inside my chocolate bar wrapper (chocolove brand).

It was an absolutely lovely poem, about appreciating something that is so good because it comes in smaller amounts of exposed beauty.

But the line about treasure - “like stones of worth they thinly placed are, Or captains jewels in the carcanet,” -just made me picture a trophy partner and what a burden that would be to perform. I have had that chance once or twice. And ultimately rejected it. 

So, yeah, I guess it’s safe to say, my inner romantic has died. Or, at least, is taking a very long sleep due to a poisoned apple and pricked finger.  

And I’m not sad about it. Guess it honestly happened long ago. I’m just admitting it now.

But as I ran today, I was listening to some 90s throwbacks. And I realized why American millennials are both blessed and cursed. I mean we had old school Britney ballads. That we treated like hits. …Baby One More Time will always be legendary but the sweet, slower tracks captivated me just the same. Given the album’s massive success, doesn’t seem that I was alone. 

And though I couldn’t always hit the notes of the Mary J. Blige and Mariah Carey releases, that passion translated straight through the stereo.  I have a vivid memory of jumping around at sleepovers singing like we knew what soul crushing heartbreak felt like. 

Then there were the pop groups. 

Backstreet Boys and NSYNC?! One heart crooning, smooth stepping boy band just wasn’t enough. 

If you think about it, we were set up to fail. To expect heartthrobs and undying declarations of love. Or at least to have beautiful soul searching thoughts about someone. 

These days, hearty doses of apathy are prized. To be too deep is considered a detriment. An embarrassment.

I am happy to say I shed some of my intensity. But as a counselor and a writer, it is not in my nature to be too surface based. 

So to protect myself, my heart, and independence, I’ve taken myself out of the game. I just don’t believe it’s going to happen for me, that sweeping romance they showcase on the radio or TV. When “friends with benefits” leaves the “friend” bit wanting, and when dates turn on me for the slightest hint of a rejection, it leaves a girl tired. Fortunately, straddling two jobs doesn’t allow time for dating anyway.

But it would be a lie to say that work is the only reason I’m returning to my soltera era. 

These days if I pull a tarot card that is in the romance department I treat it like most people treat a death card. 

It’s not that I’m scared of receiving love. It’s that I’m scared of devoting time and energy to people who aren’t deserving, who don’t know how to give it back. I don’t want to be someone’s trophy or cheerleader. Especially when I already have such a strong relationship with myself, and my besties. 

I have tried, believe me. I’ve thrown my hat in the ring, so to speak. Many times. And learned countless lessons. But, for the most part, if they weren’t a temporary fling, they had substance but no romance, which read as platonic. Or they had chivalry without substance, which came off as insincere. 

My cup has been drained countless times from subpar relationships. But has been filled to the brim from hobbies, family, and friends. 

I was never a big romantic ( just ask my family). Even before I started going on dates I was writing lyrics like “Don’t want to orbit your ego” and “Don’t need a man.” I was more interested in casting spells over my Spencer’s cauldron than weighing my prospects. In a way I don’t think I was ever cooler. Every insult I said to any boy then was genuine, not a means to an end to have a partner for homecoming dance. 

But, all the same, I do feel misled by society. In the back of my mind, I assumed romance would come for me as soon as I broke free of my hometown. 

Now, in my thirties, I am no closer to finding a mate than I was in my adolescence. If romance was handed to me in the form of an oxygen mask, I’d assume I was already dead. 

I’m hardly a hermit, but you won’t find me on the apps. Nor will a candlelit dinner sweep me off my feet. I’m over it. I just want good old fashioned reciprocation. And sparks. Or nada. 

I am not quitting, just going back to my roots. 

I Iet the wind guide me; I don’t overthink things. I don’t make time for people who suck my energy like evil vampires. 

I’m already Vampiric enough.