I was going through my abandoned Livejournal today, hunting for a link to an internet article from God knows how long ago and because it’s a bit unavoidable, I started reading my old entries. I do this every now and then (usually when I am hit with bouts of paranoia and start worrying that I didn’t privatize certain posts) and as usual, the barely recognizable Helga of old left me chagrined. I was a whiny, unnecessarily dramatic, meandering wreck who thought too highly of her bratty self and I find comfort in the thought that I have come a long way since. It’s nice to know that despite being a drunken mess for the most part, the past three years or so weren’t such a waste.

For a 23-year old, I’ve had a pretty interesting dating career. Unfortunately (and I say this with no trace of bitterness at all, just how I see it in hindsight), most of the guys I’ve ever involved myself with proved to be bad choices and— to a certain extent— wastes of time. I do have questionable taste in men, I admit to that. Fortunately, I didn’t end up with any of them.

These days, it feels like I’ve reached the end of the road and I mean that in the loveliest, most optimistic, and most satisfying way possible. It hasn’t particularly been a long time— just a little over a year (and I must say: there’s this pair of jeans I’ve had longer…), but it’s been a sweet journey culminating in the realization and the hope that he is The One, the last lover, and the only person I would ever want to wake up next to every morning (and please forgive me for the cheesiness) forever.

As much as I try not to, I have always had this tendency to romanticize even the most mundane of things. Everything seems prettier when written down and thought of in big, fancy words; the scenes and stories, as they play out in my mind, are always duplicated, layered, blending set to screen with 60% opacity, and topped off with 2 pixel Gaussian blur filter. It’s easy to lose myself in this little world of mine (and I often do) so I compensate (usually guiltily) by attacking life in the shrewdest and harshest way I can.

Un-romanticization #1: There are no great forces that brought us together. The universe did not see two stranger hearts seeking each other and decide to have them meet.

Following the trail of e-breadcrumbs I left, I have come to see that one major factor that brought our relationship out of the carnal stage and into that level of having actual, deep feelings for each other was my unconsciously understanding what it was that I wanted. You know how it is when you’re young, pretty, and have people left and right telling you you can basically get anything and anyone you want: you turn ruthless and obsess about objects (ideas and people included) that don’t easily fall onto your lap. You seek and are always up for a challenge; the main goal is to figure out how something or someone works to own them. Embarrassingly, that was how I was. Coupled with my former inclination to go after assholes, it’s no surprise I never formed anything lasting up until he came along.

And so I realized that I was looking for a connection, not a challenge. I got it right, this time around.

Un-romanticization #2: My heart has never been more honest with my mind.

I love how my body fits into his perfectly— like a Matryoshka doll, how in sync our movements in bed are (with only the slightest blunders caused by emotional highs), and how attuned he is to my thoughts and emotions. It’s not hard to forget the rest of the world and its complexities and totally immerse myself in just us. It’s the scariest thing ever.

Un-romanticization #3: But not as scary as us not working out.

Before he left, he told me that he fears I’d be hating him two years from now because our plans didn’t fall through. Each day is geared towards making us work. The distance is frustrating and so am I, when I demand, dwell, and let my immaturities get the best of me.

For the past several weeks, I’ve been feeling bad about not having ever received flowers for him. It’s a barrel of silly, really, wanting a bouquet of roses simply because it’s what boyfriends give to their girlfriends as a romantic gesture. I have yet to get my flowers but I’ve stopped complaining and giving him grief for it. If he’s willing to let me hold his hand while I fall asleep or while we make love; if he’s there in bed beside me when I wake up, ready to be assaulted with my good morning kisses; if he’s working his damn hardest for our future because he wants nothing more than to settle down and start a family with me, that’s pretty romantic.

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