Week 3. The hatred continues to bubble in my cauldron of contempt. While you may have thought I had run out of steam, I shall renounce yet another girly attribute that has been unfairly foisted onto womankind: romance. To be clear, I am not exactly flinging eggs at young couples on the street. I am solely criticising the mawkish grick that is perpetuated in Katherine Heigl movies.
Despite monumental leaps forward in feminism and the diversification of gender roles, we cannot shake the residual dregs of a Byron-esque era whereby men produced flowers and women swooned in frilly dresses. Today, the very same importance is attached to a bouquet of roses, but this time it is a Facebook post, praising the very best boyfriend that ever existed. No mention of what he did to necessitate the roses. No suggestion that the gesture was clichéd at best and glaringly impersonal at worst. No attempt to mask the Aldi sticker. I’ve seen more Shakespearean efforts on Jeremy Kyle. The internet is littered with these daily proclamations of lust; a fauxmance that blossomed in the early days of Bebo love and matured into the enduringly romantic Facebook poke.
PUBLIC PROPOSALS. Who in the name of Lucifer ever deemed this an acceptable practice? It basically translates as: I am not asking you to marry me; rather, I am subjecting you to an enormous amount of peer pressure to agree, and if you say no, you are a giant bitch. Swell. Since when did flash mobs and big screens constitute romance? I’ve had people tell me I’d be lucky to be proposed to at this rate, but if that rules out a diamond ring in a fecking slice of cake, then I’ll gladly buy that one-way ticket to Spinsterville.
Despite all of my beliefs, does the fact that I am in a committed relationship make it hypocritical of me to lambast the romantic world? Perhaps. The difference is that my linkage to the other half on Facebook is not exactly to declare our love but rather to fend off attention from unwanted female predators. I am in effect, peeing in a circle around him to establish a base level of understanding to the outside world. In some ways, I do want it to be known that I am with S.O., as generally, I am quite fond of him and haven’t killed him yet.
Furthermore, I am not resisting the allure of everyday romance. While I am not exactly carried over the threshold to bed every night, I do receive a generous shove to awaken my couch slumber. When I get home, there is still at least one square of Galaxy left. And hoovering! After two years, I still do not know what our hoover looks like and yet our apartment remains by and large, debris free thanks to S.O. Now that’s romance. Fecking Love, Actually up in here.