Romantic Rewrites #1: How rom coms trained me to chase emotionally unavailable men

On love stories, unrealistic expectations, and what nobody told me about real intimacy. Spoiler: it ain’t exciting

Photo by Nik on Unsplash

Welcome to my Romantic Rewrites series, where I unpick the romantic myths I grew up on, thanks to a borderline unhealthy obsession with romantic comedies and Disney. Written from the lens of a thirty-something version of me who’s now lived a bit—through the absolute chaos of single life, and the slightly calmer (but still dramatic in its own way) reality of long-term commitment. Loved, doubted, committed, grown... and still unpicking the stories I once believed about what love was supposed to be.

To read the whole series, please head over here.

When I was 18, I took on an optional project for extra credit — a 10,000-word essay. My chosen topic? Pride and Prejudice and its many adaptations.

It wasn’t required, but I loved writing, and I was obsessed with rom coms — probably not in a healthy way.

One of my pride and joys was my collection of romantic comedies. I distinctly remember counting when I had sixty DVDs in my little shelving unit in my bedroom, and yes, a couple of them were Disney, but they were mainly rom coms. I refused to let my parents store them downstairs because then they’d be hidden away. I wanted to show them off.

I frickin’ loved them.

Nothing made me more happy, more joyful, than seeing a beautiful woman with a heart of gold, finally be seen and appreciated by a charming but slightly arrogant, definite mummy issues, 100% needs therapy but would never in a million years go, very emotionally unavailable man.

When I was just eight years old, I wrote my first crush on a piece of paper and passed it around to my friends like it was classified intel.

My crush? Hugh Grant.

Why? Because of Daniel Cleaver in Bridget Jones’ Diary. Obviously.

Even when I moved on to Mr Darcy in Pride and Prejudice (or, Colin Firth, in the BBC adaptation), and Mark Darcy (funnily enough, also Colin Firth) in my teen years, the pattern still remained — a man who was still very arrogant or pompous, acted like he wasn’t interested, except that once the woman “charmed” him (with her complete ordinariness, remember), she unlocked his kind, caring, secure nature.

Aka — the ideal man.

I was obsessed, and I created an imaginary vision of the ideal man in my mind (from the age of about 13). He was to be:

a) Ridiculously tall, dark and handsome.

b) Arrogant.

c) Universally fancied by every woman in the room.

d) Seemingly uninterested in all the women in the room, apart from me of course.

e) Actually a really, really lovely, charming, secure, gentleman who adored me.

All those romantic films were training for me, to help me become the kind of woman who would get that kind of man.

In my mid-twenties, I finally realised something:

The ‘emotionally unavailable’ part and the ‘really lovely gentleman who adored me’ didn’t often coexist. In fact, they usually lacked one very big, key thing:

Emotional maturity and actual readiness for a relationship.

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In my extensive essay on Pride and Prejudice (note that copies are available upon request — it’s a classic ‘Compare and Contrast’), I examined ‘the portrayal of love and marriage’, I spoke in depth about how Austen subverted the societal norms, opting to write characters who spent time choosing their future partner, instead of it being chosen for them.

For her time, this was exceptional. It’s no wonder she was so popular. But in immersing myself so much in this world and in these romanticised characters, at such an impressionable age, I ended up with a very warped idea of what love and marriage meant.

I thought that love meant passion, and adrenaline, and excitement.

I thought that love meant that I would find a man who wasn’t available at first, but due to the fact that I was his perfect woman, I would change him, and win him over.

It took me until my mid-to-late twenties to stop dating men like this — and to find myself an incredibly secure man.

But I still get drawn back to the thrill of all the unavailable ones.

And it’s only in my thirties that I am realising that what love (and marriage) actually means, and that it’s sadly not so much a partner who every day is a perfect day with. But one who you communicate well with, who you can be honest with, where there’s mutual respect, and you never feel like you have to pretend to be someone else.

Most of all, love is accepting that a lot of the time, being in a relationship is really, really boring.

And I know that might sound ungrateful to any singletons out there, but trust me — I fully get that most of us just want to find our partner in life. And I’m lucky I’ve found mine.

But it is boring a lot of the time. And I don’t feel a rush of adrenaline when he walks through the door. And we don’t jump on each other every day and rip each other’s clothes off.

We message a lot about what’s for dinner.

I nag him a lot about not doing any laundry.

I often find myself saying the phrase “our brains just think very differently, it seems”.

We are very proud of our ‘fancy’ kitchen bin.

It’s not romantic 99% of the time.

But the thrill comes in actually getting through hard days, or boring days.

It comes in the little moments when we do get each other.

It came in the moment when, before we got married, I said I was worried. Worried about committing ‘my life’ to someone. And my then-fiancé hugged me and listened to me. No judgement, no panic, just understanding and love.

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Back to the films

The problem is — what I spoke about above doesn’t sell. Drama sells. Good men don’t sell.

Or at least, it didn’t.

But damn, do I wish little old me had seen some more examples of emotionally mature, decent men.

And it feels like the tide is changing ever so slightly. Like the new tv series Nobody Wants This, which features actual good communication skills.

I still love a good romcom. But now, I watch them with a pinch of salt and a much better understanding of what it actually takes to make love last. It’s not about winning over the unavailable man—it’s about being emotionally available yourself, and finding someone who is too.

In light of this, and my passion for romantic films, I think I am going to rewatch a lot of the classics and take on my own compare and contrast series.

Watch this space.

Love from,

Imi