Bluntly put: I am a hopeless romantic.

Bluntly put: I am a hopeless romantic.

Hopeless romantics are in love with love. We believe in fairy tales; we are idealists, sentimental dreamers, imaginative, and make love look like an art-form.

I believe that there is a ‘Prince/Princess Charming’ for all of us. I believe in someone serenading the person they love at three in the morning, regardless of weather, distance, gas price, or singing ability. I believe in love being this all-encompassing power that overrules sensibility and fear. Short of their suicides, Romeo and Juliet had this down pat.

As a self-professed hopeless romantic, I’ve perused the shelves of Blockbuster many a-time for sappy movies will leave me bawling and spewing incomprehensible chatter. If I could only explain why I always cry in these sap-fests, then you’d fully understand that hopeless romantics are not loners possessing self-esteem the size of amoebas. In fact, we’re quite the opposite: outgoing, bubbly, optimistic, and more often than not, have more people surrounding us than is possibly necessary. I guess this could fall under the theory of: the more people you’re around, the better your odds.

If you’ve seen The Notebook, I think you’ll understand. Preferably I’d avoid the seven years of agonizing separation and heartbreak, but if that’s really what it takes to be happy forever, then so be it. I want to be told what Noah told Allie: “It’s not gonna be easy. It’s gonna be really hard. And we’re gonna have to work at it every day, but I want to do that, because I want you. I want all of you, forever, you and me, every day.”

Us hopeless romancers want the relationship where you don’t have to speak to be understood, where you don’t have to change, because he/she loves how you already are. A relationship where age, race and status don’t matter, where the size of a diamond isn’t necessarily a measure of love, where a pizza can be just as romantic as a $300 dinner at a five-star restaurant. Love is blind. Love is unconditional.

I will find my soul mate. One who doesn’t mind watching The Notebook with me, my sometimes hurtful sarcasm, or the way I spray Febreeze onto already clean linens. A person who will know that I eat strawberry ice cream with gummy bears, sleep without socks, obsessively make my bed until it is wrinkle-free, and hate wearing shoes with laces because they squish my toes. Someone who understands sports that I do not, that lacrosse bruises are in fact battle scars, that I notice things about people others rarely do, that Hollister jeans never seem to fit me, and that I love bear hugs because they make me feel safe. Someone who can read my terribly bubbly handwriting, understands the importance of YouTube, sees the genius in cherry limeades at Sonic, knows that I get cranky when hungry, and tells me that I do, in fact, swim faster than Michael Phelps.

Bluntly put: I am in love, with love itself.