Taking a deep breath, I am deeply ashamed of the forthcoming sentences I’m about to write. However, even at the cost of inciting the anger of feminists everywhere, here I go. I long for a profound love. I yearn to vanish into the sunset alongside my soulmate. I dream of walking down the aisle once more in an ivory dress, into the arms of my gallant knight.
There it is, the unspeakable truth. Just last Friday night, Madonna, of all people—the kind of woman capable of cracking nuts with a mere flick of her eyelashes—confessed something similar. ‘Even if we consider ourselves sophisticated, educated, and evolved, in the back of our minds, we still hope that Mr. Right will come along and sweep us off our feet,’ she revealed during a TV interview. ‘If you possess any semblance of wisdom, you acknowledge that true love may not exist, yet I can envision myself walking down the aisle again.’
Perhaps the Material Girl was merely pretending to believe in the notion of great love while promoting her film W.E., which tells the story of Edward and Mrs. Simpson. Yet, I don’t believe that’s the case. I can identify the signs.
At 53, the same age I am, Madonna still perceives herself as attractive and has much to offer a man. Having triumphed over every conceivable career challenge, she might now feel bored. And lonely. Though she enjoys an incredible lifestyle, she realizes that going solo isn’t as enjoyable.
Despite having been hurt and betrayed by men, she remains open to the possibility that she simply hasn’t encountered the right one yet. ‘We keep facing disappointment,’ she admitted. ‘Yet we still cling to hope that someday, he will be The One.’ 
Recently, I came across a couple who were youthful, wealthy, attractive, and clearly in love. Upon leaving, I lamented to my female business partner, who was trying to discuss sales forecasts: ‘I want a husband! I crave a man capable of taking care of me, covering expenses, and gazing at me with adoration! I’m weary of solitude!’
When I went through my divorce in 2007, I vowed to never engage with a man again, let alone remarry. My former husband was the last in a series of boyfriends who had all managed to let me down, leaving me feeling bitter.
None of them lived up to the ideal love portrayed in fiction. Surely, Mr. Darcy—the man I pine for through the ages—would never have emitted unpleasant odors or been unfaithful? Yet, even with these emotional scars, I still hold onto the belief in a happy ending.
Am I merely a dreamer? Does true love genuinely exist in the real world, away from the glitz of cinema or the romantic tales in literature? It seems that it’s women who are well-read, educated, and career-focused, like myself, who continue to believe such love exists, leading us to often feel unfulfilled and alone.
Why is it so challenging for us to find the great love we still hope for? Well, for starters, we are perfectionists. The very reason my marriage fell apart was my relentless pursuit of a flawless life: the exotic vacation I envisioned would be filled with deep conversations, wildlife, books, massages, and laughter, while the reality was my husband watching football indoors with the curtains shut.
Our expectations are unrealistically high. Consistently disappointed, much like Madonna, we never prioritized relationships. We assumed that success, wealth, power, and material possessions would suffice. Sadly, we’ve come to realize that they do not fulfill us.
Why are Madonna, Cameron Diaz, Sandra Bullock, and numerous others single? I believe I have unearthed the answer. A few years ago, I went on a date with a man. On paper, he appearedmeeting, I was a bundle of nerves and anticipation, recalling all the fervent teenage fantasies I had woven around him.
Just to clarify, he was half-French, charming, and possessed a great sense of humor.
The truth is, I simply didn’t feel a spark with him. Nevertheless, he graciously sent me a message, saying, “Liz, I’ve been curious as to why you remain single. It’s because you realize most men aren’t deserving of you.” This resonates; truly remarkable women wait longer, filled with hope, convinced that the one-in-a-million man exists out there, like a valiant knight.
Women focused on their careers, in addition to their perfectionist tendencies, find it challenging to settle for less when it comes to a cup of coffee, much less a partner. Unlike our more nurturing counterparts who often rush to accept Mr. All Right, we are less influenced by the ticking biological clock.
I eventually reached a compromise myself, tying the knot at 41, fully aware that there were no jitters or racing heartbeats involved. I thought this was my final opportunity to have a child as I wed a man who was fundamentally unable to love me, burdened heavily by his troubled childhood.
At that point, most of my school friends had already settled down with local boys, the kinds who never strayed far from their hometown.
Meanwhile, I, a whimsical introvert, had always turned away from those boys, waiting instead for a David Cassidy, David Essex, or Marc Bolan (even now, I feel dizzy with nostalgia at the thought of Marc’s curly hair and alluring features, despite knowing he is no longer alive). The local boys simply could not compare to the likes of Ben Murphy or Paul Newman.
In my late 30s, I even flew to Las Vegas to meet David Cassidy; his son discovered me rummaging through the trash outside their home.
When I finally met the man who had been my idol for decades (the son brought me inside, likely thinking I had escaped from somewhere), I learned that the figure I had adored from afar turned out to be dull, lacking humor, and simply obsessed with horse racing on television. My deep-seated affection was for a dream, a man I never truly knew. Yet, that didn’t extinguish my dreams.
The ongoing pursuit of great love, despite the tumult of my marriage, stems from the remarkable example set by my parents.
I firmly hold that it’s unwise to settle, to accept mere stability and familiarity. I don’t think passion inevitably fades over time. These beliefs can be traced back to my parents’ relationship.
While many women confide in me about the loss of excitement in their marriages but choose to stay together for the sake of shared history, mortgages, and children, my parents remained utterly in love even in their 80s after raising seven kids together over many years.
After his retirement, my dad took over the grocery duties from my mother, who had by then become disabled, and while he was shopping, she would refuse to sit idle watching television or knitting.
Instead, she would stand by the curtains, eagerly anticipating that first glimpse of him.
As he turned the corner, he would salute with the same flair from his Army days, clicking his heels in a parade-like manner, and Mum would blush and wave, all of this after more than half a century together.
As a result, inspired by my parents’ connection, I yearn for that same kind of love. Even post-divorce, while I secluded myself in the countryside, I never entirely surrendered my search for love. I’ve always remained receptive, ensuring I was hair-free and ready, just in case.
Last year, life took an unexpected romantic turn when I met a man— a rock star— who had captured my heart back in the early ’80s, a period before I felt disillusioned, before my transformation through plastic surgery, when I was young and attractive (though I didn’t perceive it at the time).
During that initial encounter…At a meeting, I had been assigned to interview him for a magazine; he was married while I was nothing. I distinctly recall his appraisal, which ended with the curt dismissal: ‘Thank you for your support.’
Some time later, we crossed paths again at a party following one of his concerts. The recollection still sends a tingle down my spine. Encouraged by my best friend, I approached him to congratulate him on his stunning performance.
He was still glistening with sweat, and as he turned his head, droplets splattered onto me. I felt my knees go weak—an experience unlike any other.
So indeed, it’s possible to swoon with both love and desire. I think this moment spoiled me for the subsequent 30 years.
Fast forward to last year; the rock star reestablished contact — a shy email offering me a free holiday after he came across an article I’d written, lamenting my financial struggles.
He recalled the time I interviewed him, even down to the dreadful Bodymap jersey outfit I wore, which had holes. (If I’d inquired about the color of my eyes during my marriage, my husband wouldn’t have known.)
Now, after three decades filled with disappointments, I find myself in a relationship of sorts with the rock star. My knees still get wobbly every time we chat or text. But will he love me as my father loved my mother?
This presents a dilemma: should I lower the drawbridge and risk the potential for hurt yet again? As a result, I’ve been maintaining distance from this man, who I believe is my soulmate. What exactly is holding me back?
I often ponder whether modern women are too occupied and jaded for romance. My mother’s affection for my father was fueled by their meeting at the onset of World War II — their inaugural date was a visit to the cinema to watch The Wizard of Oz — followed by being separated for three long years.
In contrast, we face no such monumental challenges now. Life is far too secure. Yet, I’m also apprehensive about allowing reality to infiltrate a relationship that has thrived on fantasy for decades.
Of course, I understand that love comes with no guarantees. I’m also aware of this truth: when you truly love someone, the negatives are insignificant.
My mother would never label herself a feminist, yet she remains the strongest woman I know. As she lies dying, she often asserts during moments of lucidity that she can see my father in the room, looking smart and handsome again in his uniform, waiting for her.
She is fortunate. She discovered her soulmate at the age of 21. Some of us must wait a bit longer.
by Susan Floyd
