… Our eyes were pulling each other in, closer and closer. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek. I could count his eyelashes. It's amazing how soft his face looks from this close. I was immersed in the soft caress of his finger tips as he pushed the hair back from my temple. It was absolutely perfect. I could hardly believe this moment was real. I could barely move. 

    CRASH! I opened my eyes. The startle I experienced from my cat landing on my stomach from the back of the couch is coursing viciously through my veins. I raked the throw from over me and sat up. Fell asleep on the couch again, still in my clothes. I didn't even bother to take my shoes off this time. I'm greeted by the funky smell of the garbage I forgot to take out, and the yowling of my One-True-Love, who so rudely awakened me moments earlier. He's hungry. His co-conspirator, slightly more subdued, is sitting on the loveseat, looking at me expectantly. "Now!" they both cry. Does this constitute me the "crazy cat lady"? 

    A misty Tuesday morning; twelve thousand forty five of these, varying between hot and cold, dreary and beautiful. Yet, all yielding the same result- unrealistic expectations, unrealized. The same drudgery in the mire to accomplish, and it's really no accomplishment, considering the end of it will be another empty evening spent, not bothering to put on my pj's, huddling on the couch with my throw and my two fuzzy men. 

   To be honest, I never was interested in romance stories. They've always made me a little sick to my stomach. And seeing people in real life madly in love was even worse. I knew it was all a sham. No one ever meets in a foggy field at dawn with romantic music playing (as in Pride and Prejudice), without tripping over a rock, stepping in mud, or having bugs try to fly up your nose. First kisses are hardly ever the kind you see in the movies. How can you not be conscious of your pizza breath? Or his? Or that your stomach is reeling, and despite the fact that you've had a great time with the guy, you really just want to go home and make a mad dash to the toilet? They just don't mention such things. Nevertheless, I found myself waking up from another one of those fleeting glimpses of a perfect world where happily-ever-after is real, and the screen doesn't fade to black when they kiss.

     I'm afraid I caught the plague. No, not the one from the rats in Europe. The one I was infected with as a child, watching Disney princess after Disney princess fall hopelessly in love with her Prince Charming, get married in a castle, and "happily ever after' ensues. They conveniently forget to include what happens next- what happens after the credits roll. The writers assume that we know Princess Beautiful will live a perfect, romantic life full of flowers and chocolates from the man she met only days or weeks before, with never a worry that the moment will fade away in to black and the book will close. Or the theater lights will come back on. 

     In my course of existence thus far, I have come to understand that the best romances are… someone else's; or…. the one you don't have anymore; or even the one you never had to begin with. For some reason, what you have is taken for granted, if even acknowledged at all, because the fog has lifted, the romantic music isn't playing anymore, and he's not staring dreamily into your misty eyes, coming in for that perfect kiss.

    Maybe he's sitting on the loveseat across from you, with one leg hiked over the back, in his favorite sweatpants. He's got a can of soda in his crotch, watching that stupid "action" movie for the thousandth time. No flowers or chocolates in sight as he rattles off a healthy sounding soda burp as if he were a 12 year old boy trying to impress his friends. Prince Charming? He would never dream of doing anything like that!

    From the moment we're born, we females are expected to be ravishingly beautiful princesses complete with ladylike manners, perfectly flowing tresses, a slim, corseted bodice; and falling head over heals for the most charming, attractive gentleman nearest to us.

   And it's not much better for the boys. They must grow up to be at least six feet tall, svelte and muscular. They have to be manly and witty, insightful and intelligent. They cannot be the slightest bit conceited, or even have a clue how handsome they really are. If they do happen to be tall and handsome, and are confidently aware, they are typecast into the chauvinistic womanizer. If they happen to be short or thin, they don't measure up to "man' status. If they express emotion, they're weak. But if we women happen to come across one who meets our criteria, he's too good to be true. 

    However, In all honesty, waking up every morning to your dashing prince bringing you breakfast in bed, then taking you for long walks and romantic picnics in a grassy meadow, and ending every evening with ballroom dancing the night away… might soon become just as routine- maybe even as irritating- as Prince Sweatpants and Soda

    This is my journey to find my "happily ever after." It began so long ago, down the same road so many girls have cluelessly dashed before, and will unmistakably continue to dash, after me. Well, at least until the book closes and the theater lights come back on. But it's not necessarily about finding the man of my dreams. It's not really even about any other person. I think, really, it's about me - finding me. So let's go down this yellow brick road to see where it leads.

     When I was twelve years old, watching "Beauty and the Beast," I never considered that there was more to love than what it let on. Then, came many tears of disappointment as crush after crush came and went. I was too shy to speak up, and too poor to be popular. I never wanted to admit to myself that I dreamt of being Belle on the rooftop of the castle, looking into the huge blue eyes of her prince as all the evil from his curse fell away. The sick reality of the matter… it's almost the exact opposite- you may fall in love with someone you perceive to be Prince Charming, and with one proverbial kiss, all the magic falls away, and at the very best, you're mildly disappointed because he's now the man in the sweatpants with the soda.

   I was in first grade when my symptoms started to appear. The boy in the desk behind me never said a word to me. He just played with my hair. He never pulled it, and from what I recall, we never even acknowledged each other aside from those moments. I would lean my head back, and he would run his fingers through my hair. The only things I remember about him are that he was blond, and his first name. David.

    I could go on to sequence out all the huge crushes I had while growing up, but, like I've said, this is my journey. It has nothing to do with them. Rather, going along with my previously mentioned unrealistic expectations, I will sequence out a few of my failings; I've fallen deep into love with someone who couldn't have cared less about me, turned down the proposal of someone who I never dreamed would propose to me, accepted the proposal of someone who, instead of marrying me, decided to sail the world and have a girl in every port he landed in, and even broke the heart of someone who was deeply in love with me. More than once. And, in marriage, I did virtually everything backwards, something I would surely have to sit down and explain, but I think I'll just leave it at that.

       Now, I am alone, over thirty, with two kids, a marriage, and a divorce under my belt. Even my realistic expectations have become more or less a pipe dream. I heard in a song recently that a man wanting to date a woman in my position was less like falling in love, and more like applying for a job. He had it more right than he might ever realize. Speaking as objectively as possible, no man will completely meet with my standards. Even if he meets most of them as a potential marriage mate, he would also have to meet the standards in becoming a father figure to my son and daughter, which would be even more difficult to accomplish.

   *Footnote: I should make it clear that I am not intentionally being cynical. I want to be in love. I could even say that I need it. And, in finally beginning to understand myself, I have a responsibility to be as objective as possible toward myself, as well as those who happen to come along in my life.*

    That being said, this may or may not be a love story. It probably won't be one of reuniting with a long lost love. It most likely won't be about me coming to my senses and realizing the man of my dreams was right here next to me the whole time. I can guarantee it won't be one of fate bringing the two of us together, because, lets face it, that's about as trustworthy as a fortune cookie. Living "happily ever after" is about me, being me, and being completely satisfied with who I am, proud of what I've overcome, and continuing onward, whole and complete. All before the credits role and the theater lights come back on. 

   Conversely, and speaking with all the cynicism I can possibly muster, it disgusts me that my lot in love puts me in a position where I literally cannot win for losing. All the men in my life that I would like to have, for one reason or another, I can't have, and don't want me. The men in my life that would like to have me, I don't want. And the one man I could have that does want me, not even a thousand years and perfection make him the slightest bit appealing. So what's left? Shall I close my eyes back to "tall dark and handsome?" That will only ever amount to disappearing in the mist of my imagination, and the crust I rub from my eyes. 

      Option B, if you want to call it an option. It probably more closely resembles "contingency plan." I continue drudging in the mire, and the litter box, knowing full well this is what my circumstances -and my two cats, can give me. For the time being, both offers look remarkably similar, and they both stink. I could devote my life entirely to my passions; music, art, or study. But that would lead me to the fenced in, dead end road of self-centeredness. As shiny and popular as that road seems to be, I would rather steer clear of it. Judging by the previous pages, just being in proximity to it is bad enough.

    I could throw myself entirely into the lives and wellbeing of my kids, wholeheartedly devoted to homework and PTA meetings, soccer-mom-carting them around to every social function their hearts desire. Not only would my teenage son die of embarrassment, but exhaustion at the end of that day would lead me to padded room madness. Ideally, I will strive for some sort of balance, where I am passionate about my passions, attentive and loving as a mother, and (with or without Prince Charming), entirely content and competent in my real-life life. 

    As it is, I wake up on the couch in the clothes I wore yesterday, disappointed that I vanished from that dream again, and that I didn't achieve, even the minor accomplishment of taking out the trash. I do, however, manage to get the kids up and ready for school. In time for them to catch the bus, too, which they are always exceedingly happy for. Maybe they don't like to be seen with the un-brushed, disheveled zombie they call "mom." The cats seem to have a similar opinion of me. There is an awful lot of jeering in their voices as they yell at me to open the fridge.