I Can’t Do Romance Anymore

It feels like a box of illusions when I long for something real

Earlier this year, just a few months ago, I could not wait to get a bouquet of flowers from the man I was dating. I’ve never gotten flowers from a boyfriend before.

The 16-year-old girl in me was so excited because I was finally dating a grown up. Someone who knew how to woo a lady. Someone who knew how to shower a woman with affection.

It turns out I was very wrong about that. There were no flowers. There was very little in the romance department. And it seems to me, at this point in my life, that “woo” is just a synonym for “manipulate into sex.”

You could say that I’m bitter after a lifetime of romantic disappointment, but honestly, I’m just burnt out. I’m sick of it. I’m bored.

I got so, so close. And now I’m afraid that if someone brought me flowers, I might just throw up.

None of it means anything to me anymore.

I lied. Unintentionally. I did get flowers from a man, once. When I was in 4th grade, I had a huge crush on a 6th grader named Adrian. He had dimples. That’s all I have to say. Dimples.

One day, at recess, my friends and I noticed him wandering the playground all by himself, stooping over every few feet.

What was he doing?

Eventually, we lost interest and continued our conversation. A few minutes later, the friends who were facing me widened their eyes and I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and found Adrian standing there with a bouquet of wildflowers in his hand.

That was probably the first time I understood what it felt like to swoon.

A few days later, our teacher announced that 4th, 5th, and 6th graders were going to pair up for a project — one that mimicked the board game Life. “You’ll be making budgets, planning household responsibilities, and learning how to make good decisions.”

“How is it like the Life game?” a classmate asked.

“Oh,” my teacher said, realizing she had forgotten the most important detail. “You’re going to pair up and pretend you’re married.”

There was a huge outcry of shock and some disgust from those of us who would rather have avoided having to pair up on assignments with the boys. She quickly shut it down and then announced that Adrian, the oldest student in the school, got to be the first to pick his “wife.”

I literally dropped my pencil on the floor when he chose me.

Of course, none of us questioned why the boys got to choose their wives and we had no say in the matter.

Admittedly, I didn’t want to question it. I adored Adrian.

We spent every afternoon together for the next two weeks, working on our budget worksheets, our essay assignments, and of course, good-naturedly arguing.

How much money would we make? As much as he wanted! He was a dude, after all. He could go out and get any job — rather, any salary — he liked.

What about me? Oh, I would stay home with the kids, of course.

It was pretty simple to figure it all out. I just had to pop out the kids (hopefully with Daddy’s dimples). He just had to go out and provide for his family. And all would be well in our fake marriage, just like it’s supposed to be in real life.

We got an A on the project, as expected. We followed the script. We made all the numbers come out right. And we were even a little bit crazy about each other, outside our pretend union…

That is, until he dumped me a few weeks later for our teacher’s daughter, who was in 7th grade. When I asked Adrian, in tears, why he didn’t love me anymore, he shrugged and said, “Laura got boobs.”

At 45, my hopes and dreams about relationships have shifted dramatically. I no longer feel the need to get married. I have decided not to pursue motherhood.

I’m not against either. I’m not purposefully avoiding marriage and if I fell in love with someone who had kids, I’d be open to taking on the challenge of step-parenthood.

But I find myself searching for something more in relationships. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.

I don’t want to sit down and talk about who’s going to bring home the bacon, anymore. I make my own money. I’m good.

I don’t want to talk about what color to paint the baby’s room, anymore. I did that. And there was no baby. And my heart would break if I ever talked about that again, so I’m done. No more babies.

And the truth is…I don’t want to be someone’s wife. I don’t even want to be someone’s girlfriend.

Don’t misunderstand. I’m not saying I want to stop having relationships and just enjoy casual sex. That’s not it, at all.

I want something…else. What? I don’t know. The menu women get at birth only has three choices on it: Wife/Mother, Slut, or Spinster.

I’ve had to choose off that menu way too many times. I’m tired of eating the same meals again and again. I want something different.

I talked about dating with a man I am attracted to recently, and one of the first things I said to him was, “I want to be the dude.” I didn’t care what he wanted to be — man, woman, something in between or alongside… Didn’t matter to me. But if I’m going to be in a relationship with a man, then goddammit, I am not going to be the woman.

I’ve learned the hard way where that road leads.

I remember the way my last serious boyfriend used to talk about how much he dreamed of having the world go back to the way it was in the 50s, when families were safe and happy and you knew what to expect from one another.

“I want a wife who will greet me at the door with a drink when I come home from work every night,” he used to say.

And damn if I wasn’t standing there with one of his favorite beverages most of the time he came through that door, even though I was working two or three jobs during much of our relationship. And then he left me for a 20-year-old.

“Wife” is subordinate. “Girlfriend” doesn’t even mean anything to me.

I want to be someone’s partner. (See Thomas Ott’s amazing article about this.)

Sure, I want to be recognized as a woman in a heterosexual relationship. But also as more than a woman. As whatever else I am. A little bit dude. A little bit I-don’t-know-yet.

I want a male partner who would be turned on to have me pound him into the mattress. I want a male partner who, instead of trying to calm me down when I get angry, hands me a match, and whispers, “Burn it, babe.” I want a male partner who wants my aggression, who longs for it.

Of course I sometimes want to melt into a feminine puddle of pink goo in the big, strong arms of a male lover. But I don’t think I can do that anymore without having the safety of knowing that I’m not just a woman in my relationship. Without having the safety of knowing that I’m more than “girlfriend” or “wife.”

Maybe that says it all: These roles and structures feel like illusions to me. Because I know all too well that when I step into them…they collapse into nothing.

I grew up watching Han Solo forcibly kissing Princess Leia, Maverick hooking Charlie’s romantic interest by speeding through red lights on his oh-so-manly motorcycle, and dashing Westley taking on every last villain in order to rescue Princess Buttercup.

My bosom heaves just thinking about it.

In reality, though, I feel like I’m walking into that ballroom after an earthquake, sifting through the rubble that is all over the rutted floor. I’m kicking a pathway through useless gender stereotypes, traditional gender roles in heterosexual relationships, romantic delusions, romantic expectations, and sexual assumptions.

These all look like broken toys to me now.

What does it mean to fall in love? What could it feel like without all this nonsense?

What does it mean to love a man? To desire a man? Can I see him for who he is: a person who is going through their own issues, tribulations, and insecurities who is not here to fulfill my romantic expectations?

What does it mean to accept love from a man? Can he see me for who I am: a person who doesn’t want to perform femininity for him, who is not here to fulfill his sexual expectations?

Can I find a way to have stars in my eyes but still see clearly? Can I be a woman without having to be a wife or girlfriend? Can a romantic relationship be founded on an equal friendship without losing its romance?

And what would a bouquet of flowers mean to me in a new romantic paradigm? Because, yes, I still want that.

Or maybe just one perfect wildflower that he picked himself. That feels like a good start to the new paradigm…

© Yael Wolfe 2021

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