Becoming [a] Hopeless [Romantic]

21 Valentine's Days. 0 Valentines. It would be stupid of me to think for a second that I'm the only one. God knows the world is full of lonely girls, almost relieved to be working on Valentine's Day, rather than sitting alone at home, eating peanut butter with a spoon and watching the last week of Oprah on TiVo.

This is one of many sad options that awaits me once I get off work.

And what a place to work! A movie theater. Showing 2 romantic comedies, no less. And I'm the one selling the tickets, so all smiling, blissful faces must first go through me. Seeing the couples is hard, kind of: they're cute and cuddly and the boy is paying like he's supposed to and willingly (we'll assume, for the sake of argument) seeing a Chick Flick, just for the chance to spend the pinkest day on God's meant-to-be-green Earth with his special honey. These are the older couples — ones my age and up. They don't bother me too much. No, they're nice and I wish them a chlamydia-free evening of love. No, no, the problem, dear children o' mine, is the 15-year-old "couples" who are on quadruple dates, calling home to make sure they're allowed to see a movie past 10 pm. These people make me sick.

Where was my movie-date on Valentine's Day in high school? Where was my greasy, teenage boyfriend? Why did I never get the chance to get home late after making out with a boy in a steamy car and smelling like cigarette smoke and booze while my father waits by the front door with a loaded shotgun?? Or even now, for that matter. What's up, Universe? Why the injustice? Haven't I been a good person — honest and fair? A good friend to animals and smushy babies and mean, undeserving strangers? These little hormone problems make me feel far older and beyond my years than I truly am; they make me realize that in the 6 years since I was 15, the development in my romantic life has been... not. And these prickly little teens probably aren't even virgins anymore.

Damn, cruel world.

But even the teen-fuck maniacs weren't the most unsettling part of my evening. On the contrary, I grasped desperately for the humor of their youth in romance, knowing that chlamydia is likely not far off in their future. And I hear the Herpes Fairy has no patience for midriff-tees and saggy pants. I'm just sayin'...

No, the unsettling part came in the form of girls — several of them — all separate, none of them together, arriving at different times and for different movies. Girls my age. Girls alone. Girls who are spending this Valentine's Day by themselves, enjoying a cute, happy movie... alone. And they arrived at my Box Office with smiles on their faces and a sincere goodbye of "Happy Valentine's Day." I imagine that after leaving me, they each went inside and bought a small popcorn and a small soda — enjoying their outing to its fullest and yet still not wanting the over-priced movie-snack to go to waste.

The only difference between me and these girls was that I was working and they were not.

They were not depressing. They didn't seem depressed. And I realized: That's me. I'm not depressed anymore. After 21 years of being genuinely alone, depression has almost disappeared. In its place is the resignation into hopelessness.

I saw myself in these girls, knowing that going to a movie alone never makes me feel lonely, and I do not get depressed at not having a boy to take me. But there is a pain there. And if these girls are anything like me, I saw that pain in them. 'Cause I felt it on my own body: the muscles under my cheekbones that are sore from forcing smiles onto a face that feels as though it rarely so much as grins; the dry skin and mutilated cuticles on hands that have forgotten what it feels like to be pampered, just for the sake of feeling and being pretty; a tragic ache up my back that comes from stasis and the physicalization of apathy.

More than anything, in seeing these reflections of myself, I'm reassured that this compliance with being alone doesn't mean we don't want to find Love. On the contrary, we probably want and deserve it more than anyone else. And without having any way of knowing, there is the feeling that we would never take advantage of it or abuse it or misunderstand it if it were finally to come our way and take us in its arms.

That is what makes a hopeless romantic. We want romance, we want love so hopelessly that we become conditioned to bide our time until it finds us.

But in the meantime, I only wish that all those girls could have found each other and enjoyed a Large Combo and chocolate candies together.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower — Stephen Chbosky

There are some books that only get better the more you read them; each time it reaffirms the reasons you loved it to begin with, but also you'll find new reasons—things you may have missed the first, second, or third time. However, there is something lost with each new read, something that can only be experienced the first time. For me, The Perks of Being a Wallflower is that a book, with a simplicity and emotional resonance that each time crawls in and nestles against whatever remnants still remain of my teenage heart.

Stephen Chbosky’s first novel, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, is the stunning coming-of-age story for the 21st century. It leaves blistering metaphors about innocence lost and not-so-subtle references to the biblical behind and focuses instead on just the inner-struggles of a young boy named Charlie who tries with all of his might to find a place where he belongs.

I've heard people claim that Perks is "too full of it's own emotional importance" to be taken seriously as a great work of fiction, and I admit to understanding why someone would think that... at first. But I disagree that this is a hindrance to the story; on the contrary, what Charlie goes through is not merely unrelatable fiction designed to entertain adolescents. Sounds corny, perhaps, and certainly clichéd, but every step that Charlie takes in discovering how he fits in and what makes him different manages to grip onto you and pull you effortlessly along, because it's real. This self-referential, narrator-to-reader relationship is a rarity in modern novels written for teenagers.

Charlie tells his own story here, and he does so through a series of letters that he writes to an unknown person—unknown, essentially, even to him. He explains that he heard good things about this person from someone, and he wants to write to him/her with the hopes that they will simply listen. No strings attached. His voice is young and fragile; his understanding of the world and himself is sadly naive; his kindness and compassion towards even the most terrible of people is inspiring. Charlie is brave, but is often a coward. He’s incredibly smart, but doesn’t quite get it. He knows how to read others, but doesn’t really know himself. He wants nothing more than friendship, but struggles with knowing what it really means, and how to deal with the pain of falling in love.

This may sound all too familiar; what coming-of-age tale doesn’t cover these themes? But there is something unique about Charlie’s story. Perhaps it is his sweetness and innocent view of the world. Perhaps it is his variety of friends—most notably Patrick, who is gay (and written by Chbosky in such a way that draws attention away from stereotypes, yet is simultaneously not afraid to show a “dark side” to young gay life), and Sam, who is a voice of reason and understanding throughout Charlie’s journey, and yet struggles with her own dilemmas and mistakes. Perhaps it is the fact that Chbosky doesn't shy away from the topics that are relevant to modern teenagers: drugs, sex, music, loneliness, depression, abuse, homosexuality, and young love.

For me, what takes Perks from being just another decent novel to one that's "nearly perfect" is how exactly it reflects me on a personal level: struggles, fears, and insecurities. As the title implies, Charlie’s story is all about what happens when you don’t participate; what life is like for those who sit on the sidelines; the benefits and struggles of sitting and watching and understanding, but never really being part of the experience.

That is my life. This book is me.

Like Hector tells Posner in Alan Bennett’s play, The History Boys:

“The best moments in reading are when you come across something—a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things—which you had thought special and particular to you. Now here it is, set down by someone else, a person you have never met, someone even who is long dead. And it is as if a hand has come out and taken yours.”

That’s what The Perks of Being a Wallflower was to me when I was 16, and what it still is today. More than anything—more than the way Charlie is or how he views the world—it’s what people make him realize about himself; it’s finishing the book and realizing the mistake of living a life only for others… of never truly participating. Charlie learns, and to my surprise, I did too.

I recommend this book to anyone accepting of some melodrama (what teenager isn't an emotional mess who thinks no one understands them?) and personal self-reflection, though I feel there is something special about reading this book in high school—something that, otherwise, might be missed. If you are not in high school, you may not understand what it is that makes the story so great, though you would likely be touched in one way or another, if you are open to it. Every freshman high school student should read this book. Everyone should see the world through Charlie’s eyes.

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