I have a problem

Hi, my name is Jenni, and I’m a romant-aholic.

Unlike some addicts, I know exactly when my love for all things romance began: unrealistic, fictional literary classics. The original purveyors of chic-lit, Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte, are like Pop Sensation Madonna’s of the romantic novel/movie movement. Sigh. Let me break down just exactly how bad it’s gotten.

Stage One: Sixth Grade. As a child, I loved reading as an escape from my lowly existence as an adolescent trapped in the clutches of over-protective parents who wouldn’t let me go to Wet ‘n Wild in the summer for fear of ear infections. So instead of getting cancer-causing rays like the rest of my tan friends, I won the Mesquite Library Award for the girl who read the most hours that summer. And as a prize, I got an autographed book of Johnny Appleseed by Steven Kellogg (which I still have). That. Is. Dork.

And that winter holiday, Mom took my sister and me to Half-Price Books to get us through the holidays and we acquired a book which still sits on my bedside table today (seriously): Daddy Long Legs by Jean Webster. Thanks to Google, you can now actually read the book for free online (which I recommend), and this short novel was the start of my unrealistic dreams of marrying the perfect (and well-to-do, could sing and dance and look “dashing”) man. It also had a nice women’s lib angle to it, which was an added bonus.

Stage Two: Seventh Grade. Unfortunately, not much had changed by a year – just the reading challenge. In my reading class (which I’m sort of shocked still exists… I don’t exactly understand the difference between Reading and English, but I’m not the educational expert, so I’m sure someone will enlighten me), we had this competition where we had to take computer tests on the books we read – if we got enough points, we got to skip out on school and go to Six Flags. The more difficult the book, the more points you got. So my mom suggested one of her favorite books, Jane Eyre. Which is now my favorite book. And the beauty of Jane Eyre? Mr. Rochester was kind of a jerk. He kept to himself, had some stuff hidden in the closet (or in this case, the attic) and was not the perfect man. But I got my first taste of what love is between a man and a woman – loving despite flaws – and I was hooked. I ended up having to read the book again in high school and college, which made my addiction even worse.

Stage Three: High School. This is totally embarrassing, but the books were cheap, so why not, right? Cheap, trashy romance novels. What’s even more hilarious is that I’m such a prude that I skipped past the chapters that go into detail around the “love making.” LOL. Unfortunately, these books are so formulaic, predictable and unrealistic, that they are perfect when you’re feeling down in the dumps. Which is like, all of high school.

Stage Four: College. Because I was never allowed to watch Pretty Women – or really any decent romantic movie at my parents’ house, college provided the opportunity for me to watch whatever I wanted. Drug of choice? Movies like What Women Want, Miss Congeniality (1 and 2), Bridget Jones’ Diary, etc. (and then, of course, Sex and the City the TV series) And nothing beat watching them with other addicts, in PJ pants, with cheap wine coolers.

Stage Five: Post-College. Post college, I have diversified my portfolio to include any book written by Jane Austen, any movie that mentions Jane Austen, anything Twilight related, any book that mixes Jane Austen and the undead (think Pride and Prejudice and Zombies or Mr. Darcy, Vampyre… yeah, I’ve read both… twice). I still am a sucker for the related movies (BBC or Kiera Knightly versions of Pride and Prejudice do the trick quite nicely, as does the Bollywood version Bride and Prejudice) and I still watch with other addicts – except our food choices have luckily changed to wine and cheese, which is probably not @fatroll approved.

It’s a problem, but unlike other addictions, I have no plans to stop! You’ll have to pry Sense and Sensibility, New Moon and the Shopoholic series from my death grip. And it won’t be pretty. Ask Justin.