So my director, a weathered actor who happens to be the most brilliant man I've ever met, happens to had cast me about two months ago, for the role of Belle in A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens. This wouldn't be a problem, except that...Belle is in love. Belle is in love in every scene we see her in: first with Ebby Scrooge, and later with her dear husband Roger.
I have never been in love.
Now, don't you dare go thinking that I'm some cold, heartless bitch or that I'm hideously ugly or some such nonsense...I've had MANY an opportunity to let my hair down.
The thing is that I haven't found someone who gives me chills, giggles, and smiles, or that I genuinely WANT to just sit and talk to for hours.
That's a lie. I do have one of those. In fact, we are a pair of those really interesting friends that from the outside looking in, you can never see where that invisible boundary is crossed. Still, I won't date him, for reasons I and I alone know.
Anyway, needless to say, I haven't found someone with whom I want to go out to dinner with, to take home to meet mummy and da. I don't have that. I don't think I'll find that. And frankly, right now I don't want that.
Now, that's not to say I'm not lonely, I am. I just...nobody is right....
Richard, my director, noted my cynicism with both surprise and suspicion, and believing that I had had my poor little heart crushed under the heel of a boy with his mind set in his drawers, began his job of preaching his worldly (and I say this utterly without sarcasm), worldly knowledge to me of love.
'Brigid,' he said to me, 'I will be honest with you. Love's purpose is to procreate. That is why we feel it. That beautiful swooping feeling in the pit of your stomach, the intense lowliness compared to the one you adore, perfection....and that all the world could melt away and you'd be happy with just this one person for the rest of your life and all you want to do is that one thing that is so taboo....
and then you do it.
'The primal instinct is gone, now that you've done the deed. Your duty to carry on the human race is finished, the quota filled. Love, infatuation, only really lasts until that one thing happens, and then the magic fades. It moves on to torture some other poor sucker, and now you're left with a broken promise and a responsibility, and a foolish memory of folly and ignorance.'
So there it is. From the mind of a man who's been in love and out.
What hope do I have, then?
Who cares, I'm too cynical anyway...