Serial Crush-er
By Erin Deborah Waks
‘I fell in love today,’ I used to profess, loudly, approximately once a week.
I would, I think, proclaim myself to have been a serial crush-er. In my teenage years, so much as a wink across a coffee shop could have me announcing my undying love for whichever unexpected gentleman decided to pay me momentary attention.
It was all fun and games for a while, harmless adolescent fun. It got more complicated when I, watching my friends flit from relationship to relationship, realised it was precisely this childish, innocent, naive pattern that prevented me from developing anything real in the realm of romantic relationships.
As a writer, I feel I am almost predisposed to romantic ideals. I can write, draft or edit a scene to be the most perfect display of devotion. I can conjure up meaning from a single look, deduce love from the smallest of gestures and create a scenario from the most meagre of details. What that misses, though, is the beauty of ordinary love. Ordinary, as in real.
The first time I had my heart broken somewhat shattered my idealistic perspective. I say somewhat because no amount of sadness could ever entirely change me, but it’s true: falling in - and out - of love for the first time showed me that it’s not all perfection, with both parties following a carefully curated script leading from that first date all the way to the smashing of that glass (the Jewish equivalent of ‘till death do us part’).
Dating, thereafter, was greatly marked by disappointment. And, I found to my dismay, each time I stumbled upon a man I could like, I’d state clearly: ‘I’m not going to bother getting excited. It will probably end up being boring.’
In some ways, it was a better approach. Why get my hopes up when nine times out of ten, I’d likely feel an urge to bolt after a single drink? Why daydream about said man’s great qualities when I was set to see they were, indeed, too good to be true? Why doodle our names together in a love heart when I’d find before the end of the week that, as Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo say (Google it - essential reading for the hopeless romantics), he just wasn’t that into me?
It was better, yes, because it meant I took men for their word.
But it was worse because it was not me. It was not how I wanted to love, to be in love.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had a crush, if I’m honest. I’m older now and, dare I say, wiser - I think that’s what protects me from loving blindly, from trusting without verifying, perhaps more than necessary. I’m far more cautious when it comes to my heart. But I’m still the romantic, dreamy, optimistic girl who can’t help but picture herself in that white dress.
