Hopeful Romantic

Montana, with its rugged terrain and unpredictable weather, was the perfect childhood setting for a fairytale. 

When I was a little girl I was Snow White in the apple orchard, running from the witch. I was Sleeping Beauty lost in the woods of aspen trees. I was Cinderella sitting cross-legged in deep patches of wild asparagus, chewing on long stems of grass, waiting for my invitation to the ball. Since I was a very young girl, every dress-up performance has starred me as its heroine, and every tale has begun and ended with me happily in love. Even as a little girl I was determined to find Prince Charming and live my happily ever after. 

I love romance; the fact that little has materialized in my life is terribly ironic.

My typical Friday night is not romantic. I suppose it’s not quite typical; recently I’ve decided I drink too much, so in lieu of my usual two glasses of red wine, I capped off my night with a bowl of fake ice cream. Still, there is nothing romantic about sitting at home in my sweats watching television on my laptop. My clean hair feels kind of sexy, but there’s no one here to see it or run their fingers through it. Nope, just me and the cat, and she only likes me some of the time.

We can file these under Reasons I Don’t Have a Boyfriend, alongside “Talks to herself while grocery shopping” and “Picks her nose”. 

Until recently I was starting to wonder if even my girlfriends found me un-dateable, imagining them complaining to their new husbands about my neurotic episodes of depression, or how bossy I am, or that I talk too loud and sometimes interrupt. When my friends have each managed to find someone, it’s pretty damn hard not to think the problem must lie with me.

Does staying home alone on a Friday night really mean I’ve given up, or just that I’m old? Either way, who’s to say Prince Charming isn’t going to waltz into my bedroom in sweatpants and plop down to watch television? Maybe he can’t have dairy, either.