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    How I got swept away
    I don't want a fairytale prince. I'd prefer to date the villain. You know, start my way from the bottom
    Not that it's not nice to meet a chivalrous man who's willing to make a commitment, is sexually functional and claims to have seen me in his dreams, has been waiting for me all his life – and all while humming show tunes. But like every fairytale, a love story that starts too fast, too strong and is full of bombastic gestures, grandiose declarations and exaggerated self confidence will blow up in your face halfway through.

     

    It is known that a person who exaggerates does so to convince himself of something. If he really knew that I was the love of his life he wouldn't feel the need to inflate the love, bolt it down in a shared apartment and plan for years to come. He would have allowed it to breathe on its own. On our third date he arrived at my place with a toolbox and fixed my hot water pipe in the kitchen. Breathtaking right? I should have suspected something then and there. But no. I decided to go with the flow.

     

    When you think about it, what's the point in telling someone who believes himself to be in love with me – that he's actually not? A waste, right? Maybe I was mistaken all those times I insisted on the truth. I'm quite the demagogue, in the end I always win this argument. Over time I realized how it works – if I assert that it makes no sense enough times they are eventually convinced that I'm right and walk away.

     

    This time I made a conscious decision to enjoy being swept away. Between you and me, why not? I have a man who's fun to be with, who isn't afraid of pleasing, of saying it, of committing to it – why should I disturb him? Obviously the chances of him knowing something that I don't are pretty slim, but why not give him the chance to convince me for a change? Maybe in reality I'm actually a princess in a tower, the most beautiful creature in existence, every movement I make is sexy, and only I don't see it? What, it can't be?

     

    Last week, in a moment of candidness, he suddenly admitted that maybe it wasn't exactly a done deal for him. That's why they say it's always best to start from the bottom – that way there's nowhere to fall.

     

    If a friend had told me that someone declared his love for her after one week, ordered two kids and a picket fence after two weeks and suggested they move in together after three weeks I would tell her one thing – run for your life. Because at best it sounds like a case of delusions and an oppressive occupation tactic at worst. If only it was a friend. If. That way I would at least have someone to say "I told you so" to. But it was me. Me! What two kids?! Have you even met me lately?

     

    Trust me, nevermind the ones who call a day after your date and behave nicely. It's better to start from the bottom and take some rejections. Him not thinking that you're perfect actually takes away a lot of pressure from you. That way there won't be a situation where one day he suddenly doesn't have the energy to support his fantasy and he finally realizes that you're not what he thought you were at all. So you're in love with a shit, but at least he's a predictable shit.

     

    Since then, even though indecision is something I'm much more comfortable dealing with, I'm very angry. At myself for getting swept away despite my experience. And at him, for not thinking twice before promising me a uterus full of children while he had second thoughts.

     

    And don't get me wrong: I had the dream of living in a Disney movie just like everyone else. I just discovered the hard way that in the long wrong it's better to settle for a garden variety Al Bundy who sits on the couch all day.

     

    It's such a shame about expectations. It's also a bummer to discover that Pocahontas goes to the bathroom and that when you hit your head you don't see stars or little birds. It just hurts.

     

     

     

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