In which the author expresses a desire to sue Hollywood.

Each questionably great romantic comedy ends similarly but differently. With the love of their life gone far far away due to a misunderstanding, the protagonist realizes the hard way that life without said romantic partner is cold and loveless. And so begins the last scene, one you mindlessly cheer on knowing of the situation’s improbability and the predictableness of the ending.
Rex Harrisson as Henry Higgins, after his impassioned and somewhat misogynistic “Why Can’t A Woman Be More Like A Man?” soon realizes that the Cockney Eliza Doolittle was more than just an experiment. George Peppard, the impoverished boytoy writer and Audrey Hepburn, the whimsical socialite Holly Golightly look for a stray cat called Cat in the pouring rain in a back alley, accepting that as two drifters, they’d just be happier if they stuck together. Runs through terminals, and friendly guards who allow transgressions and breach of security at the risk of their jobs, a romantic conclusion atop the Empire State Building, several years into the future after a casual acquaintance on a road trip vehemently declares that men and women can never be friend because sex will always come in between.
I blame Hollywood for ingraining in me standards that teenage boys will never achieve due to the lack of a scriptwriter controlling their lives and actions.
I blame Hollywood for making me believe in a parallel universe where I would be consoled by a dashing man in a tuxedo, ascending on an escalator, a single rose in his hand and a look of pure love.
I blame Hollywood for wrapping my mind around three words, three words that would emotionally validate me, I refer not to ‘I Love You’ , but Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire with the line, ‘You Complete Me.’
While on one hand, the sheer volume of unwatchable romantic movies cheapens and mocks the idea of love, the film industry has also glorified the same emotion, putting it on a pedestal so high that we are led to assume that we cannot function without a wonderfully kind, loving and considerate significant other.
The purpose of this diatribe is not to advocate the idea of independent singledom. It is selfish. It is to remind myself that I’ve been socially conditioned to emotionally look for things that are fantastical and scripted. Films end with a slow fadeout embrace or a sincere ‘I Love You’ and a consequent kiss of reconciliation. That there is a Happily Ever After is a conclusion out candyfloss mind jumps to.
A relationship is dynamic, and no sprint on tarmac or speech in front of crowds ever conclusively solves anything. If anything it is, at best, a good anecdote for when you grow older. But sooner or later, you will resent something again and at some point the airport is going to list you as a repeat offender on charges of trespassing.
So what do I conclude from all of this? That a relationship is a compromise that you are willing to make, that our environment teaches us things that are not necessarily true. That flying under the radar, being off the grid, and simplicity is just as effective and heart-warming and meaningful as freezing to death in the middle of an ocean watching your lover survive. At least you can be sure that in your case, he didn’t memorize lines that someone else wrote for him, and he’s not reading it out while wearing alarmingly large amounts of makeup.