“Any attempt in love is excruciatingly painful, but worth it.”
I am 18 years old and I need to be in love.
Or, at least, that’s what I think. I intend to be someone who craves to be with the love of his life, The One, whom I will tread the farthest ends of the world with. Perhaps then life will be less lonely than it already is.
I’ve watched and rewatched enough episodes of “How I Met Your Mother,” among other stories, to understand that any attempt in love is excruciatingly painful, but worth it, nonetheless.
And unlike the popular opinion, I actually loved the ending. No matter how perfect Tracy was for Ted, in the end he and Robin still got together. It may have taken so many years for both to figure it out (and yes, we factor in the bad circumstances), but they still did.
My hopeless romantic self knows these stories still happen in real life, and I can’t help but imagine possible scenarios for my own. Everything’s become theoretical: What would happen if I did this? Would I want this scenario? Would I be okay with the setting, the events that led to this? I reveled in my idealism, my imagination. I dreamed for my own story to be one for the books.
And it is for this reason that I have become so hopelessly in love with the idea of love. I guess that’s where I’ve come too far.
It’s hilarious, I know: A guy who’s barely an adult, problematizing a shallow case that categorically falls under the sardonic #firstworldproblems hashtag. In a generation that has changed so much—where Sagada isn’t just a cultural heritage but also a “hugot” nest—the common shout into the void isn’t of social relevance at all. Instead, we’re deafened by “walang forever!” remarks of heartbroken teenagers.
(We’ve always been accused as a generation that thinks the universe is centered on us, and I’m probably reinforcing that idea.)
So I just go with the flow. Yeah, I may not have been as expressive as the others, I don’t rant as much as they do (as I write this, several friends come to mind), but I do think about love—perhaps more than the times I’m supposed to. My goal has become to experience the best love story there is, because to me there is no idea more beautiful.
I used to criticize my parents for not being as romantic as their son. My father was still working abroad back then; my mother, a high school teacher. They were pen pals. Both come from lower middle class families, so none of those extravagant proposals. When he came back to the country, it was only a matter of time before the church bells rang. In 1993, they got married and my sister was conceived right away. There wasn’t conflict at all—it was all just simple.
And I can only think: Who gives in to a bunch of love letters? Being pen pals is definitely not as romantic as it seems.
Every weekend when I come home from the dorms, I am not welcomed by longing, hugs or kisses. Our family has never achieved that cool family status where we have similar costumes and do videos together. We don’t do monthly out-of-towns. Ours is not, and will probably never be, the envy of other families.
But I realized my parents didn’t need any of this; and I, their living proof. I know the family love exists. It is a feeling, and it can only stem from my parents’ efforts to nourish it long before I was included in the picture.
Their relationship is never perfect: There are arguments every day. I probably inherited that from both. Just five years ago, I thought this family would end and I would grow up lacking in love, but it didn’t. My mother and father have triumphed over their own trials and I see their love growing now, more than ever.
If they weren’t my parents, I would have slammed, “walang forever!” on their faces. But I know better.
My parents didn’t think of such perfect logistics when it came to their love. They just simply did in the most conventional, yet beautiful, way. Last May 30, they celebrated another wedding anniversary and I knew it could only go another 10 years or more before I get to celebrate my own.
If there’s one thing I’ll get from all of this, it’s that expressing love has no hierarchies. If you love, you love. And if you actually do, you won’t be alone.
So what the hell, right? I am only 18 and if love comes, it just comes.
Arianne Christian G. Tapao, 18, is a journalism student at University of the Philippines. He likes to watch spoken word videos before sleeping. His dog constantly barks at him, but it’s its way of saying it likes him.
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