Movies and TV are good at making you want. making you dream of bigger things. putting notions into your head that such things are possible. Take love for instance. It’s been romanticized– and made bigger than life– in movies since before i was born. it makes us believe in extraordinary, fairytale love. in soulmate love. my one-and-only love.
We begin to imagine that such a love is possible. we begin to think in terms of “he/she is out there.” and, worse yet, for those of us with significant others, we may just examine our own loves and begin to think, “what’s wrong with my mate… where did i go wrong?”
I used to be a believer. Hell, not only was I a believer, I actually had convinced myself that I was living the “love that movies are made of.” Seemingly, we had it all– two wonderful kids (boy and girl)– 4 bedroom home in the suburbs, the Lexus and the Audi, well paying careers, an active sex life. BLISS from the word GO. so serenely happy. and then he goes and cheats with some 29-year-old soulmate from the office.
A second soulmate? a new THE ONE? this time it’s a “for real” extraordinary love– first try having been a terrible mistake. that first time, being me. the wife. the one that was living the “love movies are made of” life. remember me?
And this is why i begin to hate love stories. and why the term soulmate leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. and why i want to puke when I watch Grey’s Anatomy and they define Derek and Meredith’s love as EXTRAORDINARY.
And you know what? While it may seem that I’m blaming my husband for my disbelief, that I’m mad at him for making me a non-believer, it’s more like I’m mad at myself. for buying into the myth. for convincing myself that i had the movie love. for believing the fairytale…
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