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You have these ideals of romance. Do they really exist? Yes, there's desire, lust, friendship. There's attraction, there's commitment, there's probably even love. But is there romance? Can you really find a man like in the movies? Do romance novels come true? Attentive, doting, tender. Full of chivalry and heroics. Wooing you. Taking your arm, opening doors, writing sweet notes. Being a gentleman. Not full of belches and flatulence. Not gluttonous, lazy, unemployed. With greasy, unwashed hair. Shirt about to burst at the buttons over a belly that dwarfs Santa's. An ear to ear combover. Picking his nose at the gas pump because he doesn't think anyone can see. Four inches of buttcrack oozing over the belt that's cinched tighter than a noose. Teeth crustier than week-old French bread. A man who looks deep into your eyes and listens to your dreams. Who talks to you about life, adventures, art and culture. A man who sends chills down your spine. Instead you're offered a man who looks over your head to the tv and jacks the volume up because you dared speak. Who rambles on about cars, sports, fishing and his dirty undershorts. A man who knees you in the back because you're on his side of the bed. You believe in a man who loves you deeply, who will take care of you and protect you. One who will defend your honor. Instead, he compares you to his saintly mother. He looks at other women in front of you, laughs at the sexist jokes and grunts, "huh-huh, she's m'ah woman" when his friends leer. He'd shove you into oncoming traffic to protect his beater car. Dreams of a man who lays down his coat so you can cross a puddle, who lets you enter a room first, who stands when you do. These are interrupted by a man who parks so he's not in the puddle but you are; who doesn't even notice you've entered the room; who shouts for you to bring him the chips and soda as you leave the room. Thoughts of romantic picnics, moonlit strolls, tender kisses that last for hours. Romantic movies, nights out all dressed up, fancy dinners. Sweet sonatas playing softly in the background. Reality gives you rancid boiled hotdogs at a car race, trudging behind him at the swap meet, him rubbing his crotch on you while he says, "wanna do IT?!" He wants "Debbie Does Dallas" or "Smokey and the Bandit." Hitting the drive thru at Taco Bell so he can go home and put on his ratty pj's with the worn-out elastic. Once-a-year trips to the dollar theater with him forgetting his wallet and you buying him the belly buster popcorn and super deluxe soda, to boot! Being serenaded with "Bad to the Bone" or "Whoop! There it is!" on a daily basis. For special occasions, he burps along or you get "Me So Horny" by 2 Live Crew. Visions of prince charming giving you fancy ball gowns and diamond jewelry. An old castle with servants. Fancy vacations to tropical islands. These are shattered by gifts of thong underwear and dustbusters. A broken-down travel trailer in the woods with an outhouse (if you're lucky). The closest you come to a servant is him buying you a serving wench costume for Halloween. Travel plans include the Super Bowl, the World's Largest Ball of Twine or a bus ride to his mother's house. So after all this, why do we still hope? Why do women read romance novels and cry over Casablanca? How does the song go? "To dream the impossible dream, to fight the impossible fight."?? I have news, the only hopeless romantics are us, girls. And we are truly hopeless. 
©Copyright - Stumbeline - Jan. 6, 2001
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