There are a couple of things you realize when you find yourself crying over an Anne Hathaway movie in your dorm room at 1 a.m.
The first, and most pressing, is that you have a roommate sleeping nearby who will ask too many questions if your sobs wake her up.
The second, and more daunting, is that you have been looking for love in all the wrong places. You’ve been waiting for the sparks that your favorite movies and shows have promoted for as long as you can remember. You’ve forgotten that cinematic romance is desirable and luring simply because it is the goal we set and convinced ourselves we can achieve; we forget that when stories are set against the realistic backdrop of Manhattan, it becomes so easy to ignore the line between fact and film.
In the age of McDreamy and every single Ryan Gosling character, there is this idea that support and adoration will without fail lead to a beautiful love story; if we overcome so many obstacles just to profess our love in the pouring rain, well then: the rest of our lives will just be smooth sailing!
And then there comes a time when you have to sit down and remind yourself that you can’t go looking for your Hugh Grant in a frat house. No one will ever provide for you the unconditional love and support a romantic comedy lead will: no one shows up to throw pebbles at windows, wait outside with a boom box playing your favorite song, or - if you’re thinking about Zac Efron, which most of us are - climb onto your balcony and basically break into your house to see you. This trope of the dreamy knight in shining armor who comes around when things look bleak is comparable to the everlasting Manic Pixie Dream Girl: two roles that set insatiable standards for what we set out to find on our campuses.
When we are in relationships, we compare our situations to what we see on TV. We tell ourselves that these glorified tales are not only an achievable goal, but the norm. We grow dissatisfied when our love lives aren’t like we see on screen and end up perpetually trapped in this desire for something that we can’t synthesize.
And then there are those of us who are single and holding onto the belief that our Great Big Love Story is just around the corner. In lieu of comparison, we have begun to create our relationships out of thin air: we save pictures of celebrities, and take someone else’s last name out for a spin, and fall in love with the man in the window in the medical school building across the street who kind of looks like Sam Claflin if you squint.
We find ourselves looking at anyone who passes by and wonder if they will have any impact on our lives. There’s this longing that drives us somewhat insane, only to be followed with the realization that everything isn’t what we were expecting it to be.
Love in the generation of streaming capabilities has turned us all into softies who are only left with unrequited adoration. Growing up with Disney Channel Original Movies and stepping right out into the world of Grey’s Anatomy has left us all pining for a love that only exists on our screens.
And then there is the love lost. We’ve all had those moments where we dramatize any heartbreak: a hook up that falls through, the end of a long term relationship, realizing the one you’ve never had quite enough courage to speak to actually has a love life outside of your daydreams.
I grew up with the idea that as the quirky girl who wears sneakers and sits on bleachers, I would eventually be every boy’s dream. Every time a crush began to grow, I talked myself into believing that this was my Great Love Story: there was my best guy friend who stopped talking to me the day I worked up the courage to say I like you. There was the boy my friends all made me believe was crushing on me too because he kicked the back of my chair in class, but was really just enjoyed pissing me off. And then there was the boy the year above me whose Spanish homework I stole because, as we all decided, he was going to need it eventually and would come running to me (he didn’t, if you were wondering).
So I found my heartbroken time and again over boys who sometimes never knew my name. And now I find myself taking the sidelines as I cheer for and coach on and cry with my friends through all their romantic endeavors. And I brush my teeth, feeling like the Million Dollar Matchmaker, holding fast to the optimism that my love story is going to appear as my reward. I, like so many others, have made myself the protagonist in a film version of my life, forgetting that the real world does not go according to script.
But then we all have to ask ourselves: where do we go when the rose-tinted glasses come off? Right back to our abused Netflix accounts. And we begin the cycle again as we find our closure and comfort in Sandra Bullock finally getting lucky in love.
