Image courtesy of Stuart Miles at FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Valentines Day is round the corner. All around us are the usual incitements to buy romantic treats for our loved one – although I was slightly bemused in Asda today to find there was also an entire aisle devoted to Easter eggs and most bizarrely, a marmite flavour egg. But I digress. This year, along with the usual valentine merchandise we have also to contend with the highly hyped new movie 50 Shades of Grey, based on the best selling book of the same name.
Now I do not claim to have read this book but I have enough of an idea of the gist of it. I did read the third instalment of the trilogy (it was the only one available in the library at the time) and not only did I find the sex scenes boring, I was also dismayed by the portrayal of a dominating, egotistical, and rather dysfunctional man as the ultimate romantic hero for our times.
Don’t get me wrong. I am a romantic. My teens and early twenties were spent, I am ashamed to say, devouring all sorts of romantic novels from Mills & Boons to Georgette Heyer. I longed for romance. I lived for romance. My dreams were full of brooding, handsome (and of course wealthy) heroes who would sweep me off my feet and transform my life.
Of course Mr Darcy did not come a calling. I doubt if he came a calling on any other young lady either, not even Kate Middleton who finally nabbed her prince after many patient years of waiting for him to pop the question. The truth is, Mr Darcy is a myth. We women have been sold a lie for centuries – a lie often peddled to us by our fellow women – about the nature of true love. We have been conditioned from childhood to want a prince charming to ride on his horse and rescue us (check out Colette Dowling’s book, the Cinderella Complex about women’s fear of independence).
Why else, in the 21st century, are women still under-represented in politics, in business or in the media? Why is there so much pressure on women to be sexually desirable to men (boob job anyone?) when there is no similar pressure on men? Why do we still believe this myth that the ultimate romantic hero is a powerful man to whom we must submit?
The irony is that love, true love, is a wonderful thing. I was fortunate enough to find it and I can tell you it looks nothing like Christian Grey, Mr Darcy or Heathcliff. My true love is a bit of a nerd with a middle aged paunch, a tendency to flatulence and to fret if he has displaced his keys or mobile phone. He is also my best friend – no one, not even my family, understands me like he does. I can talk to him about anything and everything. He tells me I am loved every morning and every evening. He holds me in his arms every night and gives me comfort. He is my champion, encouraging me to do things I would not have the confidence to do otherwise. That ladies, is a true romantic hero. I wonder how many more functional relationships there would be in society if women understood this.