I hate this age, 24. When nothing is figured out, yet everything is expected to fall into place. Prince Charming presents himself and whisks you off your feet, then buys you enough lattés and entrées to take you for a test drive. Of course now a days, it’s extremely rude if the female party fails to offer her half, and even ruder for the male party not to accept. It’s quite difficult to tell who’s riding whom these days.
We learn love from the movies. From Romeo and Shirin. From Ebi and Tom Jones. Moments feel magical if they look like Fardin feeling Meg Ryan up. And potential mates become more attractive if they smoke like James Bond and wouldn’t mind falling in love with prostitutes in Film Farsis.
Forth come the anticipation of jobs and more education and the “What if he kicks you out? You have to be an independent woman!”s. Everyone wants to know what you’re doing with your life and where you are headed. They also want to inform you about this biological clock foolishness.
So should I go after my dreams and aspirations, which have been shaped in turn by these exact elements of popular culture, or should I tell all the “famil” to scrunch their sleeves up and find someone whose genes most closely make up for the shortcomings of mine? Should I travel and see the world and start climbing the ladder of success…or settle down in one place so I can finally meet someone and put him in my “gene chortkeh”?
I’m too much of a realist to fall victim to the conventions of idealism. Pragmatism wins. “Sleepless in Seattle is history”!
