The Fabio principle

I blame it on the Harlequin romance novels.

My mom did a great job in fostering a love of reading in me. She took me to the library every summer and allowed me to read things I wanted to read, rather than try to force me to read things I had no interest in. So I can't quote "War and Peace," but my bookshelf held all 72 volumes of the "Sweet Valley High" series by the time I was in sixth grade. Oh, those Wakefield twins... they could get into some hijinks.

During high school, about the time I started dating, I graduated from tween novels that ended with innocent kisses to books with more adult content. And by adult content, I mean the romance novel genre. With chiseled men on the front cover who had names like Dirk and Gage. They were usually misunderstood fellows, who either (a) had a solitary job like cattle herding, or (b) were rich playboys who'd yet to settle down with the right woman.

There'd be a meet-cute, like reaching for the same carton of milk at the supermarket. Sparks would fly, and soon there would be heaving bosoms and hanky panky in the barn.

I was hooked. And it wasn't about the new glimpse into forbidden topics around my house. Because I knew stuff. We got cable when I was in fourth grade, and my brother watched "The Van" 432 times one summer. I looked up the words I didn't know in the family dictionary.

But the books were more about the romance. The perfect man. Because no matter how flawed he seemed at the beginning of a novel, by the end it was discovered that he was merely afraid of falling in love. Or he was protecting his woman from danger. It only took the love of a good woman to turn him onto romance.

There were flowers and dinners and easy confessions. The men talked about their feelings.

But, let's face it, that's mostly fantasy. Men really don't act that way. They don't always say the right thing or buy the right gift or even consider the grand gesture.

So I figure I have two choices: (a) stay happily single; or (b) accept that reality isn't anything like novels or romantic comedies. In real life, Harry might meet Sally, but he'd never realize she was the one. Oh, he'd still spend the night with her and then say something stupid the next morning. But that would be the end of their story.

John Cusack won't be holding up a boom box outside of my house anytime soon. Jake Ryan won't be leaning on his Porsche on my birthday. And we won't all live happily ever after. Unless we accept that happiness is relative. And we can't depend on anyone else--male or female--to make us happy.