Just saying the name Michael Buble causes hundreds of girls all over this world to fall into a dead faint, regardless if they are within earshot. The syllabus of his name have a timbre to them that reverberates through the earth’s core and touches the hearts and souls of women. It’s understandable – the guy sings love songs in a clear jazz voice and looks stellar doing it. Buble is this millennium’s Bing Crosby: accessible and normal-looking, with a quirky personality and smooth voice. He’s our go-to guy to tackle any jazz standard (runners-up: Brit singer Jamie Cullum and N’awlins boy Harry Connick Jr.).
My roommate loves him. My sister loves him. Even my mom brightens a bit when she hears his name. I too enjoy his music, but I’m not quite as smitten with him. He causes me to be “that girl” that I hate so much: the hopelessly pathetic romantic. When I listen to his music, my heart pangs and I start looking around wistfully for someone to fall in love with – a dangerous occupation when walking down the street.
He’s hard to avoid these days, Buble, especially with his hit single “Haven’t Met You Yet,” an anthem for every single girl (or guy, but let’s be honest – girl) about waiting and wishing and hoping. I love the song, I do. It has a good perspective on this whole looking for love journey, saying that waiting patiently is a good and necessary thing. But what I love (and loathe) even MORE is the story behind it.
Rumor is that he wrote this song in 2008 after a devastating break-up with Emily Blunt (now married to Jim Krasinski – please, someone keep me away from People.com). In late 2008, he met an Argentinian actress with about five names, the majority of them starting with L. Bada bing, bada boom: she stars in his video for the not-quite-in-love song, they’re engaged, wedding on the beach.
Here is where a chorus of my happily-in-love friends chimes in with the moral of the story. All together now: “Once you begin being satisfied and stop looking for a significant other, that’s when he’ll show up.” Next comes the part where each person tells her individual story about how she gave up on love and then love found her. And to end it all, a pat on the arm or encouraging look, followed by, “He’s out there. It’s going to be so great when it happens for you.”
I love my happily-in-love friends. I roll my eyes at their flirting. I make “awww” noises at their romantic gestures. I dance at their weddings. I’m happy for their happiness, because I truly believe that all of us are meant to go through life with other people, and for many of us, that means a spouse. I love that they want me to experience the same joy they have, and I hope I get the chance someday.
BUT. I say bull. I don’t believe that this love thing works the way they tell me it does. I don’t believe that all I have to do is close my eyes and wait in order for the perfect one to suddenly appear in front of me. I believe that falling for another person is hard work and often painful – hence the term “falling.” It’s a risk, it’s a struggle, and along with the joy comes a bunch of frustration.
Ultimately, it’s like sticking your hand in a bag containing many pieces of diamond-shaped glass and a few diamonds. Sometimes, you know you have a diamond and you grab onto it. Sometimes, it’s just a piece of glass, and you’ve got to let it go and swirl your hand through the options again. Most of the time, it seems like it’s hard to tell until you look at it in enough different lights. Regardless, that piece of glass or diamond will probably make you bleed. But the diamond refracts the light in the most beautiful ways, making rainbows everywhere you see. The trick seems to be putting your hand in the bag.
Sometimes it seems that the only options presented to me are disregarding the other gender or viewing each single man I meet as my future spouse (hint: neither are healthy). Instead, I’m trying getting to know and love others. In this way, I can create a support system of people who care about me. And if sometime, my future partner finds his way into that system, I’m going to spend my time marveling at how that diamond makes the most beautiful rainbows in my life until my final days on this earth.
OR I suppose I could choose this fourth option: writing something about how I’m fine with waiting forever. It seemed to work for Michael Buble, and – let’s be honest – I’d be fine with an Argentinian.