Ahh. Christmas time. The aroma of pine, packages wrapped in gold, rosy cheeks, the jingle of holiday tunes, mistletoe...oh, wait. Right there. The end of Christmas cheer. Every year, with the decking of halls and roasting of chestnuts, I remember that I remain helplessly, pathetically, single. Though my static Facebook status never truly bothers me, something about the holiday season results in a subconscious awareness of my loneliness. I witness couples exchange a peck under the holly and ivy, and sip on hot cocoa at the local Starbucks. How cute. I gag at this cheesy display of affection, then realize this disgust stems from my actual envy. As I watch lovers stroll along the picturesque scenery of Chagrin, I, too, find myself yearning for a glove-covered hand to hold on to. I can only remain so hopeful after receiving a number of "Jingle Jingle, Ready to Mingle" party invites from my sister. But thanks to AP English, I believe I have found my male suitor for this Christmas season. John Keats. While researching the poet, I stumbled upon one of his love letters addressed to Miss Fanny Brawne. One thing led to another, and I found myself fawning over his chivalry for the next half hour. Just like a train wreck, I understood the dangerous potential for self-pity as I continued to read - yet could not stop. As soon as I believed my sense of dejection could not reach higher levels, Keats' letters only worsened my dilemma. I mean, he refers to her as "My Sweet Girl," and "tender Beauty." Come on! Her name is Fanny! I shook my head with each endearment, and slumped lower in my seat with every passionate plead. For those thirty minutes, I lived vicariously through Fanny and the adoration she so effortlessly received. She had him wrapped around her finger. Totally whipped. Oh how I wish I had someone like John Keats. My infatuation for this hopeless romantic reached new levels when he proclaimed, "you [Fanny] are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me, so destroyed my freedom," only in reference to his passionate love. I continued to drool over this sappy romance, especially upon hearing Keats' wish that "we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days...with more delight than fifty common years could ever obtain." My Santa wish-list: for a man to adore me so much, that he admits to a willing loss of personal freedom. Or for a man that wishes for our metamorphosis into majestic butterflies. Either or. After reading Keats' gooey letters, my smitten romance fantasy of gingerbread house decorating and trimming trees seems that much more realistic. Wether or not I find my Christmas courtship in the six days, I now know that my heart lies in the early 19th century. As long as the holiday season continues to shove my single status in my face, I will try to remember that Christmas miracles do exist. Or maybe I should just rename myself Fanny.
I also encountered Keats' sappy love letters to the unfortunately-named Fanny while doing larger occasion research, but unlike you, I found his over-the-top compliments dramatic, shallow and saccharine. I think that if someone referred to me as "tender beauty," I would slap them across the face. I leave you with a bit of reassurance over your single status - while others stress out over buying pricey presents for their significant others, we can spend our extra cash on things that really matter, such as guacamole on the side at Chipotle.
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