Tonight we watch a movie about a princess who is forced to marry a Prince just to keep her throne. This Disney flick brings back my childhood in soft pink – a color I always hated. I notice then that pink is really quite beautiful in the right light. And then I ask a question I have never asked myself before.

Why have I always felt guilty for wanting a Prince in the first place?

It’s pointless to pretend, even to online strangers, that I am someone different than this. Sooner or later, you will all discover that beyond being wildly open in writing, I am also a complete romantic. It doesn’t matter what has happened in the past, I still dream about the kind of love that draws tears of gratitude from my eyes. I dream of holding hands at the movies, resting my head on someone’s shoulder on a plane and playing all our old records for each other while telling stories about why the songs mean so much.

My parents are growing old. It’s painful for me to just type that. But being here this week has been good for me because I watch how they are together. My dad cuts the leftover meat from the bone and packs it into the fridge because my mother’s hands hurt. She reminds him to take his medicine. If apart for the day, at least three phone calls are made between them. She fixes his collar. He kisses her before she leaves for the store. They are exquisite in my tear filled eyes.

I don’t think I knew for a long time what love is to me. I suppose I followed an unwritten textbook of what love looks like. But in the last few years I have sort of taken a “high Fidelity” review of my previous relationships and tried to focus on the traits of these men that I do like instead of creating a list of what turned me off. My discoveries?

Well, I like nice hands, dimpled backsides and sincere eyes. A gravelly kind voice makes me weak in the knees. I like the hair to be unruly or shaved. I like a nice bit of scruffiness of the face and smile lines around the eyes. I like men who wear stylish glasses, footwear and layers. I like men who have good relationships with their parents and grandparents. I adore men who don’t mind reading subtitles, own art and lead me through a crowd by putting a hand at the small of my back. I like a man who creates and gets lost in the process of his creation. I never forget a man who stays out all night at a bar or party and doesn’t get drunk. Nearly every man who touched my hair or my cheek during a conversation made me melt. I still daydream about many men who asked me to dance or communicated with me through music. And, as I’ve said before, making me breakfast scores major points.

I honestly felt that wanting to share my life with a man was a sign of weakness. From as far back as I can remember I have stated in many ways, “I will do it myself!” Like a two year old, I metaphorically stamp my foot in protest of any support. But listening to my niece say my same lines of independence, I now can only think of all the love my parents, her grandparents, have managed to find in each other every day. I think of my real desire to know the same. A desire that has never waned despite my attempts to suffocate it. And I think of a man out there at this very moment that would describe love as a woman like me in the same detail I used above.

So tomorrow, maybe what I will do is turn to my niece and say, “Tell me about your Prince.” History has taught me that love is a sign of strength.