We single women believe ourselves to be invincible where matters of the heart are concerned; we enjoy masked indifference, playing the role of the vague femme fatale: willing our physical desire while stifling emotional attachment. And, for a change, it feels as though we are in control, powerful and incapable of mar. So willing are we to become the masculine figure that we exchange our emotional zeal for a cool façade of composure (it is also around this time we begin to coin the phrase “man of the moment”)
Beneath this daunting exterior, though, lies our everywoman who will see the occasional couple strolling hand in hand down State Street and that prompts the inevitable: I wish I had that. And we do. Despite the horrifying pick up lines, unfortunate dates and heartbreak we still vie for the thrill of romance and what comes afterward, a binding connection.
Love. Poets speak of it, artists etch it and writers (continue to) ponder it; what is it that fascinates us with the idea of falling in love while simultaneously encourages us to be wary of it?
Fate has a remarkable way of interfering where matters of the heart are concerned and within this draw between love and indifference we solitary souls must also consider the impossible, that at an unexpected moment we could meet Mr. Right and fall head over heels despite our innermost aversions and suspicions. So then do we take the leap and risk the fall?
Nothing is certain to be assured and yet tonight I am tempted by Tennyson’s quip “When err befall tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”
You know, I quite agree with him.
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