There are two types of people in this world who can afford to wait around for miracles to change their lives.
Immortals, and dead people.
I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t spend the better part of my many daydreams sighing after a miracle to sweep me off my feet. Usually this miracle saunters up in the guise of a tall, gorgeous man with a charming smile and perfectly manicured fingers sweeping through wind-tossed dark bangs, but sometimes it’s a publishing contract for my new YA novel or–if I’ve been watching one too many interviews of The Hunger Games that night–an accidental bumping-into Josh Hutcherson on a local sidestreet.
Most miracles nowadays, however, are manufactured. I always feel like I’m cheating fate when I make my own miracles, sort of like how technology ruins romance for a 21st-century couple that yearns for destiny to bring them back together. Because let’s face it: Serendipity (2001) would never have happened had it taken place 10 years later, because John Cusack would have already Facebook stalked the bejeezus out of Kate Beckinsale’s character before Googling her employment history, contact info, and relationship status. Who needs phone numbers written on dollar bills when you have the internet?
In short, most modern-day miracles suck the fun out of romance. And don’t sit there shaking your head knowingly at me, because even as you read these words you’re secretly toggling to the browser tab that contains every Facebook picture that guy (or girl) you just met yesterday at the airport has ever uploaded. And if you aren’t doing it now, you have done it, or will be doing it, or both. And it’s probably not your first time, either.
I hold my own pretty well–better in some cases than in others. Just this Thanksgiving, I was at the airport along with hundreds of other straggling holiday travelers and finally snagged a seat at a crowded table full of disheveled but friendly-looking guys.… Read more