The Undying Hopeless Romantic Inside Me

Someone (I forgot who) once wrote that a sign of maturity is the death of idealism. I get this a lot. I’m not sure if idealism is necessarily positive or negative. But I do agree that disappointment is the gap between expectation and reality.

Just a few days ago, a boy I was crushing on told me that the only way I can get his family to approve of me is to manage my image (Indonesian: jaga image) in front of them. That made me decide not to pursue a more serious relationship with him, because, despite liking him as a person, I didn’t want to be part of another judgmental and controlling family on top of the one I was born into.

Now, logic and rational “I know I should/shouldn’t do/feel/think this” aside, do I still feel disappointed? Yes, very many times. Do I still keep my hopes up? Naively, another resounding yes, very many times. Will I ever stop being a hopeless romantic? Very, very naively, I don’t think it is possible.

According to my Indonesian guy friend, here are the reasons why men in my country won’t date me: I don’t really want kids. I had a prolific sexual history. I have an unstable family. Finally, according to him, I have a “difficult personality.”

I asked what this “difficult personality” was. My friend said that I am the type to question my husband’s decisions a lot, which makes him and his family frustrated. He said that I’m too argumentative, too disagreeable, too demanding. My thoughts, feelings, and emotions: Too much.

I found this plainly strange, as I seldom have issues with women; in fact, I have a very positive relationship with most women. It is only with men that my personality is an issue.

Yet, despite all this, I still want love! I still want a boyfriend! I think that there will always be a spark of my hopeless romantic that will never die, no matter how much I try to swat her away or dim her or cover her with layers of mosquito nets — she’ll always find a way out.

She rings and buzzes in my ear every night, keeping blissful sleep far away from me. She is much more annoying than any mosquito. While I have captured three mosquitoes with one clap once (my proudest achievement), I have never slapped or killed any part of my hopeless romantic.

No matter what shitty, dreadful, misandry-inducing thing that has happened to me, in the end of the day, I still want love.

I still wish to love, even though every time I date a man, my workload doubles. I still long for love, even though every time I go out with a man, I end up paying for the tab or splitting it. I still desire love, even though almost every time I have sex with men, I have to finish myself off in the bathroom. I still crave love, despite knowing that someone like me — who struggles with self-respect — will hardly get it.

I’m tired of having to accommodate men while they have little consideration for me. I hate that every time we have sex, I have to give head as a default, but they won’t return the favour. I hate that I have to shave parts of me (literally and metaphorically), tame my opinions, and manage my voice sweetly, not to be considered bitchy. I’m burnt out right now, and yet, despite all this, I still yearn for love.

Yet, despite all this, I still want love! I still want a boyfriend!

I feel angry upon realising this. I feel like I have to work so hard to get half the respect men get by doing nothing. Men have everything handed to them on a silver platter; we, their partners, mould ourselves to their needs and wants as a default, yet in the end, to them, we remain an afterthought. I feel that I am biochemically addicted to this Sisyphean pursuit.

And I think it is eminently human. Not the prospect of finding a lover, but the desire for it. It is an almost universal desire that simultaneously makes us feel lonely (by reminding us of our isolation), yet bonded (with other lonely humans).

My female friend asked me what I do all this for. Why continue dating when I get nothing: no flowers, no orgasms, not even credit for my labour. I do my exes’ house chores, university assignments, and office work, and even write their parliamentary speeches; one of them told me that, had it not been for me, he wouldn’t have graduated from his MBA.

I wanted a man because I liked the idea of being my master’s pet princess — only to help him earn his master’s degree!

I suppose I liked the idea of dating more than the act of dating itself.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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Photo credit: Joel Timothy on Unsplash