I don’t like to describe myself as cynical, but I'll readily admit I'm secretly a fairly pessimistic person. It's one of my genetic gifts, and it's something I grapple with from time to time. I developed the sense of a hopeless romantic from my mom, and the two battle it out non stop, evenly matched save for those awful moments when watching the un-hopeless romantics in the world around me acting the way they do seems to prove the Pessimist right. It’s at these moments that the Hopeless Romantic goes to him, not really ready to admit defeat, but at least to acknowledge the definitive losing fight that makes his struggle so valiant a one. There is an inherent pessimism to the Hopeless Romantic, hopeless being the key word here. But every once in a while, I come across something so wonderful, so beautiful, so indescribably glorious that the Hopeless Romantic need do nothing but point and smile satisfactorily. "Well played, sir" smirks the Pessimist, and goes back to his isolation, sitting in an armchair smoking a cigar in a large empty mansion.
This morning I stumbled across one such overwhelmingly beautiful epoch. I passed by a house that was privy to the TP-ing of a lifetime. I really want to go back and take photos or something, so that I can remind myself years later that I was blessed enough to see that good of a job in my life. They hit everything: three trees (we’re just now coming out of winter, so they were still bare of leaves), the bushes, the wooden bench, some on the roof, and even around and in the mailbox. The house and yard were fairly small, so they hit the neighbors’ gardens and trees as well, subtly enough that the focus was still on the one house. Lastly, the best part was a shining emblem of the reason behind it all: posted in the middle of the yard, and accentuated with ribbons of two-ply, was a poster board sign on a wooden stake that proudly said "I ♥ U!"
It's nice to see someone of my generation with a little pride in tradition, and a knowledge of the past. You see, this is a lesser known fact anymore, but historically speaking, the meaning and inherent symbolism of TP-ing someone's house was as a grand and chivalrous act of love. Only a love true enough, pure enough, brave enough could summon the courage in the heart of the male to declare his passion to the world by TP-ing the house of the object of his affections. Over time, this aspect of the task has slowly disappeared, and now what once was an important step in the order of courtly love, has now been accumulated into the collective arts of the base and soulless vandal. Now a days, the passionate art of TP-ing is performed almost exclusively by vagabonds and villains, whose sole intent is to quench their lust for adrenaline. Usually, too, these kinds of performances are mere trifles; poor, unfinished jobs that are more of an embarrassment to the vandal in question than an annoyance to the owner of the unfortunate residence. There doesn't seem to be any more TP-ings worth even slowing down to gawk at. Gone are the days when true love held its sway; when a man could target his beloved with an array of flying rolls, either to prove the steadfastness of his love to the disapproving guardians of the girl, or perhaps to melt her icy heart and prove the strength of his loyalty to her. I look around in shame at the disheartened yards with but a single roll or two, ashamed at its own inadequacy to attract better artisans of the craft. I sigh wistfully to myself, and sometimes piteously ask aloud, "What has become of France?"
But here, holding its head high, this yard could display both the crystal clear majesty, the utter completeness of this monument, and it's even clearer message of passion. I only hope that I myself will have the courage, skill, and heroism to one day pay the due honor to my beloved with such a gift. I hope and pray, every night that I too can leave this kind of romantic impression upon her.
This is the most romantic thing I think I've ever seen.
There is hope for the future yet.
