Anyone who has ever spent more than five minutes in my company or read my blog might have sussed out a rather strange dichotomy in my personality. After much reflection I have coined an appropriate term for this paradox: cynical romantic. So what is a cynical romantic?
Well, on the one hand my childhood and teens were so saturated in Disney, novels and romcoms that I had a pretty adamant belief that, at some convenient time in the not so distant future, I would stumble across my Prince Charming. Now that is not to say I was completely deluded. For one thing I don’t attend nearly enough polo matches or Ascot meets for the whole white stallion thing to be likely and real life princes are nowhere near as prolific as they are in cartoon films. But there was definitely a Versace suit and some moonlight involved in my daydreams and come to think of it the guy did hold a remarkable resemblance to Eric from The Little Mermaid… but I digress.
So imagine my surprise when I fiiiiinally landed an actual boyfriend and he brought me a bouquet of flowers, just because. And what was my response to this wonderful gesture? I laughed and cracked a joke about wondering who he had cheated on me with to warrant such lovely flowers in order to dispel the romantic atmosphere. After that it became clear that although I was more than comfortable with copious amounts of romance in literature and on film, when it came to reality… not so much.
Therefore, I approach the concept of pet names between couples with conflicting sentiments. When I come across cute old people who have been married for hundreds of years calling each other ‘Sweetheart’ and ‘Dearest,’ it fills me with a snuggly warmth as if I’m watching teacups and candlesticks dance around an enchanted ballroom. However, at the same time the idea of my boyfriend of four years calling me ‘Honey,’ or, heaven forbid, ‘Darling,’ makes me feel… stressed is probably the most apt word for it. You see? Romantic cynic.
This leads me to a warning for all my fellow romantic cynics out there, inspired by observing some of my friends. I once read a book in which the heroine described an immensely awkward conversation with her soon-to-be ex boyfriend about how he wanted to start calling her ‘Honey’ and he wanted her to call him ‘Darling.’ Her sheer panic at such a request was worryingly familiar but it made me think of the couples in my general vicinity. A friend’s boyfriend calls her ‘Angel,’ in a tone which is always dripping with so much sarcasm as to make it acceptable to us romantic cynics. And yet, is it my imagination or is there a pinch less sarcasm in his voice every time I hear it? The same goes for another of my friends who married her childhood sweetheart and early on they began to call each other ‘Babes.’ Ten years later I often hear them refer to each other in this manner, only now it is without an ounce of irony. Is this how it started with our parents? Does the foundation of the dreaded term of endearment lie in repetition?
A while back my own boyfriend began to finish his goodnight texts with ‘Night, Dearest,’ finding perverse enjoyment in my real-life romantic squeamishness, and yes, you guessed it, each time I read it I become a little more inured to the concept of a term of endearment.
What is the most sickeningly sweet term of endearment you have come across?
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