I’m an addict.

There. I said it. Feels good to get it off my chest, like they say it will. The first step is admitting you have a problem, and lookie there – I just admitted it.

Narcotics? Nicotine? Caffeine? Alcohol? Nope. None of the above are my vice of choice. Not even gluttony, despite the 1/2 bag of butter-lovers popcorn that I just consumed as an afterthought to my Slim-Fast lunch (um, those things aren’t too filling, but I’m too steadfast and too destitute to get anything else!) It’s the Internet.

I’ve heard snippets on the news that people out there in Internetland really ARE addicted to the instant gratification that the WORLD WIDE WEB (emphasized to denote the way that my Mom still thinks of it) brings, but for me, it’s more the weblogs and personal websites that give me my daily fix. As I mentioned in my last entry, there’s my required daily reading, and even when I’m swamped, head under water, I’m jonesing for my daily fix of Sarah or HelenJane or Josh or CW or Heather or anyone else I’ve referenced on the right.

Anyway, in my daily check-up of cyberpals (is it presumptuous to think that they’re my pals? I hope not…) I came across the following post, copied from Sarah Hatter’s site so you all can enjoy as well…

First things first: I have never been in love. I have pretended to be in love, and have fooled many people into thinking that I was, I might have even fooled myself, but it’s never been real. Second: if I were in love right this minute, if you were standing here before me and we were face to face and for some reason we needed to determine whether we were in love with each other, I have a feeling you would say that you knew what I was thinking and that we didn’t need to say anything, and I would have the urge to say, no, you don’t know, you have no idea what I want.

My entire life has been an effort to avoid clichés, to turn from the obvious, to seek out and uncover the hidden beauties life affords those with time enough to find them. I’ve spent all my energy running against the grain with hopes of being unique, or even mildly spectacular, however far fetched that may be. Part of that struggle of mine, self-inflicted and entirely unnecessary as it may be, has been to keep from ever being in that dime a dozen movie star roses and chocolates and walks on the beach kind of love. I do not like that kind of love, only because that’s what everyone gets, and I want something all my own.

What I really want is to fall asleep in the car with you driving, or to make dinner while you read in the other room, or to laugh the way we do at silly little things we have no way of explaining to other people. I want quiet afternoons listening to good music and walking to breakfast on summer mornings. I want simple things, I don’t want something from a movie you saw a few years back and told yourself, “That’s what I will do, but I will put my own personal spin on it, just to make it original, even though I’m stealing it from a movie.” Let’s not do what you thought you’d always do, that sort of thing won’t impress me. Let’s not be in love the way you thought it would be, the way you planned and dreamed and figured. Let’s take a chance on having an abnormal love and surprise each other by not playing the games and not following the rules, and I promise you won’t be disappointed.

This made my insides ache, it rang so true. And while I hate ‘piggybacking’ on other peoples’ posts or ideas, with all due respect to Sarah, I have to add my own take on this.

I, too, have never been in love. And every time I have admitted this, the person who I have told seems incredulous. They denounce the veracity of this statement, and inevitably I either retract it or change the subject. But when all is said and done, it’s the brutal, honest truth.

At 26 years old, this seems like the latter-day version of a scarlet letter. Because, you say, what is wrong with you if you’ve never been in love? If you’ve never said (besides to your family or friends) “I love you” and never heard (besides from your family or friends) the words in return. Does that brand you unlovable?

For all that is dear and true in this world, I hope to God not.

Loyal readers of this site will find it no surprise when I say that I’m a romantic at heart. Rose-colored glasses are worn more often than not, and I’ve even been told that I’m too quick to forgive. With a few exceptions, I keep my pain private and will take the higher road, even when the higher road sucks big piles of ass. The Golden Rule and Karma and all similar mantras run through my head whenever I want to air my dirty laundry here on this site where – face it – I have the right to talk about whatever I damn well want to.

But today is all about the brutal truth.

I’ve never been in love. And despite my accomplishments, despite my many successes, despite the best family and most amazing group of friends that I can’t even begin to imagine my life without, it still makes me feel like I’ve failed here. And that breaks my heart.

I’ve had a ‘love of my life’ but, somewhere in the midst of reality and growing up and his wedding, the ‘love of my life’ became nothing but a coined phrase with very little meaning behind it. A joke, albeit a pretty pathetic one. As we’re prone to do, I moved on. I’ve had relationships, some better than others, each teaching me about what I wanted and – in some instances – teaching me more about what I didn’t want. And we grow, and we learn, and we get our heart broken and we pick up the pieces and go on – because, after all, that’s life. That’s what you do.

We get hardened and wizened and more realistic, and put away our childhood dreams of the knight in shining armor. Some people lower their standards, some people settle, some people realize that what they thought they wanted wasn’t anything that they actually needed. And somewhere, at some point, love falls into the mix.

They say that you find it when you’re least expecting it – how many times have (to quote Bridget Jones) “smug marrieds” issued that trite cliché, leaving every girl to wonder how to not expect something that is constantly brought up by our family and friends? Because, though we’re loathe to admit it, somewhere in some small nook and cranny of our cerebrum, hiding in the gray matter of our brainstem, under the 2-for-1 margarita Monday dead brain cell repository, there’s that nagging thought. What if? What if I never find someone?

Normally I’d end this entry on some witty, chipper note, reiterating that I don’t want to get married right now, that I’m loving my life the way it is, a disclaimer to all guys who read this site and, without that damage control, might find my honesty a bit too, well, honest and be found running down North Highland Avenue away from commitment-obsessed Aubs as fast as they possibly could. And while those statements are true, that I do love my life, and that if I had a wedding anytime soon it would have to be at the justice of the peace wearing Carianne’s bridesmaid dress as my gown (a result of my much-referenced financial destitution), I don’t feel comfortable ending this post that way. Because one day, I do want to meet someone, and hopefully sooner rather than later. I want my own version of the fairy tale, I want my partner to be the person who deals with the fact that cooking is a foreign word in my house, the person who knows I have cats and knows it’s because I’m such an animal lover that I still say a prayer every time I step on an ant because I feel so guilty for ending its life, the person who knows when I have PMS because I’m found rearranging my linen closet until 1am on a Tuesday night. I want a partner in all sense of the word, and I want it to be imperfect. Until that day, I suppose I’ll continue to fall in like, to have my crushes, to get angry at distance and timing and logistics, and to remain optimistic that every pot will one day find its lid.

(Is it too much to hope that mine will be Calphalon?)