I wish that I had some great and tragic love story. Perhaps a lover who had been ripped from me by society's rigid circles of class and wealth; that I, a lowly writer, with a devout love of nature and quick wit, had attracted a gentleman of good fortune. But his belligerent grandmother would never approve of such a match, and so we were forced to meet in secret under the solitude of the night’s sky, to clasp palms and whisper dreams... But alas, mine is a story of the 21^st century, one of timidly bread men, ill equipped to commit.

You know, maybe that’s what it is, maybe it’s that love no longer has to develop in the face of hardship.  Maybe our lives are too easy, and thus love evades us.  If I were an undiscovered milkmaid living out my life in a quiet country vale, or a tragically oppressed maiden locked in a menacing castle tower – than I’d have something to work with.  But instead I’m just a registered nurse, with a college degree and a retirement savings plan.  Nothing tragic here.  And clearly, nothing worth fighting for.  Maybe if I had to be cut free, or kissed awake, or pulled from some burning abbey - some man would find heroism in his unimpassioned heart, and step up to the challenge.  But, why would anyone go out of his way to save me from a life of success and happiness?