Love is Not a Picnic Lunch

Helllllllllllllllooooooooooooooooo...

So, I wrote some essays for This Island Earth, and this was my last-minute addition. It is a compilation of two old blogs as well as some new thoughts. I had very different intentions when I started typing, but this is what I had in the end. :) The spacing is weird--sorry.

Pudge and Chip. Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy. Ross and Rachel. Noah and Allie. Edward and Bella...

I remember when I first fell in love with a fictional love story. I was in tenth grade, and yes, (cough, cough) I was a cheerleader. We had a sleepover at one of the girl’s houses, and we watched Shag. The movie is set in the 1950s, when a group of four girls goes on a road trip to Myrtle Beach. The story follows their frenzied final week together before venturing off to college and marriage. Pudge, nick-named for her continuous battle with extra poundage, meets Chip, a quirky, cute local, and they become fast friends. By the end of their four-day stay, Pudge is madly in love and hoping for Chip to feel the same. Chip tries to play it cool, but he can’t help that he too has been hit by Cupid’s arrow. The viewer thinks that this perfect couple has missed their golden opportunity, but alas, they are thankfully reunited just in time to win the dance competition for which they had been practicing all week. By the closing credits, we know that his military career will have him only a few miles away from her college. And, yes, for those of you naysayers out there, they will most likely live happily ever after.

Phew. I was worried. Weren’t you?

Yes, I was fifteen, but loved that movie so much I watched it (along with the rest of the squad) for the second time the following morning. I connected with the story because these characters, although not entirely realistic, were real in a way that I liked. They had flaws, and they were not only interested in sex, as so many other love stories seemed to portray. The girl’s name was Pudge, for goodness sakes. They were cute and quirky, and admittedly, I am sure I imagined that I would someday find my very own Chip who would love me for who I was, despite a continuous battle with extra poundage.

Love stories and I have had a tumultuous relationship over the years. So often I try to be the voice of reason, chiming in to explain the inherent falsehoods within each predictable plot, but maybe it has all been a conspiracy, a cover-up to hide the tragic truth. I have all too often fallen for fiction, despite my awareness of its audacity. I have been that girl who claps at a happen ending, and I’ve cried when fate unfairly ripped two lovebirds apart. I have gushed over cheesy lines, and I have hoped for a storybook ending more than once in my own story, foolishly imagining (even if unconsciously) that love was magical, just like in the movies.

Newsflash: Pudge wasn’t fat. Chip wasn’t real.

I am not speaking to you as some jaded, single woman, desperately trying to demolish all of your hope in the power of love simply because I have not been so fortunate. In my vast and glorious wisdom, I have simply stumbled upon a very important question that begs to be answered. Has fiction, whether in the movies or in books, ruined our perception of love? Let me tell it to you straight. We can chat anytime you want, but for now, my podium must be this page.

Do you know what is dangerous? Giving your heart away.

Recently, I have been noticing how many high school students (and middle school and college and post-college…) carelessly get involved in romantic relationships without ever thinking about the lasting consequences. I watch as couples become so dependent on each other that they cease to exist as individuals. People who are too young to drive are having sex, and people who hardly know who they are begin to define themselves by another person. REAL love is hard, and it takes a great deal of selflessness, yet people get involved in relationships thinking that everything will be peachy, that it is all about that special feeling you get inside your gut, and that this person, whoever he or she may be, can do no wrong. I watch as people walk through the halls attached to each other, regardless of whether or not they are happy. I watch as people jump from relationship to relationship seemingly unable to walk alone. Why? Who told us to do this? Who said that foolishly throwing our hearts at anyone who might catch them is a good idea?

When you define your life by someone else, you begin to disappear. What happens if this relationship doesn’t work out? What happens if this person doesn’t turn out to be who you thought? Your world might crumble. When you build your life upon an unstable foundation, it is very easy to crash and burn. I have news for you; almost all high school relationships will not last, so why do you make decisions and give your heart away over and over again? Why do you live like you are married far before you are ready? Why do you not realize that your heart is fragile, that physical intimacy has far-lasting consequences on all levels, and that a boyfriend or girlfriend will NEVER satisfy all your desires. Regardless of what Tom Cruise once said, no person can truly complete you. And, there is no such thing as love from the word “hello.”

I am not trying to be a downer by any means. I love that God created us as relational beings, but I also believe that He had a perfect formula in mind, and every time we forget His way, we set ourselves up for a great deal of pain. And, I am not saying that high school students can’t do relationships intelligently, but sadly, more often than not, it just isn’t the case. We are selfish by nature; we want to please ourselves right now. It takes a lot of maturity, self-discipline, and trust to understand that NOW is not always the right time.

Love is not a feeling. Love is unconditional. Love is selfless. Love is a sacrifice. Love is more than the moment. Love is not about you. Love is a choice. Love is a verb. Love is not making out in the hallway. (And it never will be, so if you are one of those couples, please cease making the rest of us vomit.) Love is a commitment. Love takes time. Love is not always easy, or happy, or understandable. Love is not talking on the phone for hours. Love is not getting flowers. Love is not poetry. Love is not a song, a dance, or a conversation. Love is not a picnic lunch or a perfect evening out on the town. Love is important. Love is painful. Love is a risk. Love is trust. Love is exciting but not in the way you might guess. Love is from God because God is love. And, oh yeah, love never fails.

Love is rarely found in the movies, but I am shocked as to how many people (maybe I am speaking more to girls here) go searching for it there. The REAL thing--love, that is--is so much better than the movies, but it isn’t so easy. Yet, I wonder how many of us spend our time hoping for the surface type of love that we clap for in the movies. We keep waiting for the beautiful guy to come in and miraculously fall in love with our charm. We keep waiting for him to say the right thing, as if he were working from a script. We wait for the flowers, the duet in the bar, the feeling to be just right, the good girl to win…always. We wait for fiction to become reality. Even if we don’t admit it, we do.

In the meantime, as we are growing up and trying to figure out who we are, we play a game of catch with our hearts. We make decisions that have lasting consequences and then blame someone else when we have to deal with the burdens of our own decisions. We get trapped when we think we are gaining freedom. When I was fifteen, I wanted to be Pudge. I didn’t know who she was, really, but I knew that she ended up with Chip. It took me a long time to realize that true love is rarely written in the movies; reality doesn’t seem to sell as many tickets. We are made to love. ‘Tis true. But, maybe our definition of what love is shouldn’t come from Hollywood. It is a dangerous place to invest your dreams.

The storybook ending rarely comes true. Neither does the beginning.
Sex has consequences. HUGE consequences. (And I am not talking about babies or STDs alone.)
Guys’ eyes are rarely that blue.
Sometimes, there is no knight in shining armor who even cares.
Edward and Bella aren’t real.
Be careful what you do with your heart as you search for what is.

April 23, 2006

I have great stories to write, but I am so tired. Writing is such work to me, and I feel the stress of it pile on top of my already-burdened shoulders before I even begin typing. Why is that? Why does it have to be so hard for me to do?

Tonight, after spending most of the day at school working on the literary magazine, I went up north to that lovely theater (I forget its name) to watch a movie. That's the short of it. Here's the long.

For some reason, today really took a toll on me. I was proofreading essays for most of the day, and my eyes ached as well as my neck and back when all was said and done. I got home around 5:30, and I had about an hour and a half before Dan and Carly were supposed to come. I ate dinner, fast-food AGAIN, and waited for their arrival by speeding through some DVR'd television. I have this giant jar of sourdough pretzels that I bought at Wal-Mart. They aren't really that good, to be honest. They are dry, but I eat them when I am grading or bored, and it gives me something to do. Well, tonight, right as Dan arrived, I decided that I was going to try dipping them in peanut butter to see if it was a good combo. I grabbed the peanut butter out of my cabinet, took the giant jug of pretzels, and we headed up to Carmel.

When I stuck the pretzel in the peanut butter, I noticed that the texture was a little off. It was a bit more like clay than the normal gooey peanut-buttery goodness I have come to love. Nevertheless, I stupidly persevered. When the pretzel hit my mouth, an explosion of rank went off in my mouth like nothing I have ever tasted. Literally, I didn't know what to do. I was eating toxic waste, and I felt like my mouth was twisting over itself. As I choked and whined with a mouth full of half-chewed pretzel, Carly and Dan laughed hysterically at my convulsions. Dan rolled down the window, so that I could spit out the food, but the weight of it was so dense, seemingly doubling with every second, making it nearly impossible for me to successfully spit it out of the car. I tried. Most of the chunks landed between my shoulder and the door; I removed them by hand. I am sure this gesture has resulted in numerous animal deaths since 7pm as they have unknowingly crawled across Meridian, excited to find some tasty nuggets along their way, only to be surprised by the metallic slices of wool and cardboard all wrapped up in a sulfuric bow hiding themselves as chewed pretzel and peanut-butter.

Dan gave me gum. I drank some bitter lemonade. I looked at the date on the peanut butter jar.

Sell by April 23, 2006.

Whoops.

(PS. There is more to this story because I really want to talk about the movie we saw, but I am super tired, and if I write more, I am afraid I will just ramble incoherently. Well, more so than normal.)