How True It Is

I will not even pretend that I am a closet Bachelor fan. I love to watch the show. I soak up every second and make fun of the girls (and guys) every chance I get. I read the blogs. (Don't know what I am talking about, check out Lincee Ray and Chris Harrison.) I can't help it. So much of the show is so fake and staged you can't help but watch it like passing a car accident on the highway just to see what ABC will come up with next. However, there was a moment in the season premiere last week that actually hit a little too close to home for me. As you know, they always interview the girls who didn't receive a rose at the end of the night. One of the lovely ladies (and by lovely I mean drunk) was going on about about how she thought she had met the man of dreams (and all this after a few hours of hanging out with him and 24 of her "closest" female friends.) But then she spoke the words that made me sit up and take notice. "How am I supposed to believe that I am so great when all the guys I try to start a life with tell me the opposite?" I couldn't believe it. She had just summed up my entire dating history in one sentence. I have never been lucky in love. Since I started dating at age 15, I have gone long stretches of time without a boyfriend or even a prospect on the horizon or I have been in relationships that only left me longing for more. I have been envious of my friends who got it right the first time while I am still trying to figure out how I made such an error with my marriage. I see couples who are so much in love you can tell it the instant you meet them and I wonder if I will ever know what that feels like. I wonder if I even know what true love is. I am tired of being told you will just know because I thought I knew a couple of times before and now I just look back and wonder what I was thinking. I guess I still want to know when it will be my turn. When will I meet the man that will love me eternally and completely? Sixteen years later I would have thought I would have the answers by now.

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