Anyone that knows me – really knows me – will call me a lovefool. I have romanticized the idea of love to the point of a fault. Movie script writers would call me too much. Even while writing this article, I am listening to my spotify playlist that is 261 (15h 31min) love songs long, and yes, it includes Céline Dion's classic "My Heart Will Go On." My personal notebooks are full of only memories shared with people I have loved, and the books on my coffee table are all love poem anthologies. In my head, the narration of these words as I type sounds very similar to the start of that Amanda Seyfried movie where she left to fall in love in Italy on an unrealistic salary. My idealizing is unnecessary and honestly kind of off putting, but I genuinely cannot help it. I am a big love idiot – I know this, but I cannot bring myself to apologize now, it is already most of who I am.

Now that you know, you will understand my excitement when I moved to my apartment and found out that 786 steps away from my front door is a fantastic, exclusive specialty bridal boutique. It is open by appointment only, and the designers' names are not whored out all over the windows like they would do at some basic chain like David's Bridal. This boutique is quiet, elegant, and proud, knowing it does not need flashy tricks and cheap thrills for people to want to go inside. They have only one call out to the outside, unmarried, ugly single world, and it is through their giant side display window.

Season after wedding season, month after month, on my 13-minute walk to work I have taken time to pause and stare at this wall-wide window. It is the only way to get even a peek into the other treasures the boutique holds, if I even bother to look around. The handcrafted displays are my real indulgent pleasure. They are so ornate, I can walk past for 2 or 3 days, only to come across a ladder and some nails while the merchandiser gives me a new dream to hang onto. I hold my breath in anticipation every time. The window must be created by someone as obsessed with love as I am because the merchandiser's designs always match my ideals.

In Winter, I got an icy, cool bride in long-sleeve bell sleeves dancing in snow while I walked through the 60-degree Southern Winter. Gold leaf and blush pink peonies fell over a complex lattice front dress with a bohemian flair. The crushed petals fell all around the beautiful May bride while I looked on in envy. White generic flowers hung with magic in June, swirling all around the window and the effervescent bride in a fun chiffon ball gown. In my sweat drenched clothing, I swirled with the flowers and felt the cool breeze of an open field where I would look on to my partner to say the most affectionate, "I do."

At the same time, I was dating around and thinking about being married. When I entered college, I was planning on being married by 25. Now I am 22, graduated, and a handful of my peers from my tiny private high school have married. Some are even starting on their first kid. Even more of them are at least engaged to someone they have been dating for years. I walked past that window every time and thought the same thing, "is it my turn yet?"

I felt I earned it. All of my girlfriends had lasted for three years. One had even lived with me. We co-parented a dog. I folded both of our clothes. We cooked together at night while talking about our day. My friends insisted I was to desperate to U-Haul it, and maybe they were right but it felt like it fit my personality. I should be U-Hauling it – I should be packing my life up to live in love with someone that I really enjoyed. I felt like I was total wife material. Where was my eternal partner? Where was my wedding hashtag and Facebook album of really low-resolution versions of my high gloss wedding photos? In my lonely turmoil, I resolved to fix my crisis with Tinder swiping.

I ended up meeting a nice girl that knew some of my friends, and we agreed to go to a gay event together to get to know each other. Even before I entered the crowded club, the entrance was lined with other lonely singles like myself. They pretended to text people while looking around. They crossed their arms and stood with attitude. Everyone had their unique approach to seeming like they had not come alone, but the lack of composure in their face gave them away every time. They eyed each other frequently, looking frantically at any face that passed by, as if trying to see if the answer to their love problem was hidden in the face of someone else. Maybe they could make eye contact with a person and fall in love.

I know this only because I was doing the very same thing. I had come too early, and my date was in traffic. I watched them just as they watched me. I messaged friends, but they failed to message back as quickly. Instagram and Facebook were dead since everyone was out. I decided to stand absentmindedly and think about my day. It kept me occupied until someone came to talk to me. She was an average build lady with a mop of brown hair. She had decided on clean converse for the night. She reminded me of a girl I saw on Tinder earlier that afternoon. She leaned by my ear and said, "It's gross isn't it?" I responded with, "What do you mean?" She rolled her eyes, "The way we take the U-Haul so seriously. Everyone's out here on single's row wondering what they did wrong to not end up verbally married to someone that would come out with them tonight and leave in the morning. It's disgusting. We're better than this."

She proceeded to ask if I wanted to go in and she would get me a drink. I declined, proud to say I had someone coming. I spent another 30 minutes getting updates from my date on her traffic jam. When she finally came, I noted her crooked smile and crisp button down. I grabbed her arm and smiled politely while the rest of the people on Single's Row watched in envy. I lost her in the crowd after a few songs and deleted my Tinder. I never again walked past the window at the boutique with envious daydreams.