How To Kill Romance In One Easy Step

The summer I turned twenty, I experienced my first potential summer romance.

I had never in my life believed in romance, at least in the way it's peddled by pop culture.  Even though I smiled when Crocodile Dundee climbed over all of those kind, helpful New Yorkers to reunite with his love interest on a subway platform, deep inside I knew that kind of stuff was complete and total bullshit.

However, at the beginning of the summer I would turn twenty, when I met a very cute boy, we exchanged numbers and then started spending all our free time together, my ideas about romance, or at least the storybook "summer romance," began to change.  And when he did things like surprise me at work with a picnic lunch, write a song about me and sing it to me over the phone, and invite me to walk on the beach and watch the full moon rise, I began to think that perhaps rom-com, sweep-a-girl-off-her-feet type romance actually did exist in this world.  And, embarrassing as this is to admit, I felt simply elated about the possibility.

The night that particular concept went supernova in the life of Al was the very night the boy asked me to accompany him to the beach to watch the full moon rise.  Imagine it, folks:  a Cape Cod beach late at night, an enormous, gorgeous full moon shining in the sky and reflecting off the water, plucky foxes running hither and thither between the dunes and the waves - I mean seriously, it was a fucking postcard of romantic bliss.

A backdrop of romantic perfection!  What could possibly go wrong?

And then this happened.

The boy spread a blanket on the sand for us to lie on.  We stared appreciatively at the moon and stars for a bit, and then he leaned over and kissed me.  After a few moments of idyllic summer romance kissing, he pulled back, looked down at me and quietly said, "Do you know who you look like in the moonlight?"

Holy shit! thought I.  Here it is!  My uber-romantic moment!  What is he going to say?

Allowing myself to get swept away in the moment, imagining the vast array of lovely females from whom he could choose to make this the most glorious experience of my life, I gazed up into his eyes and asked, "Who?"

And then he said this:

"Al from Happy Days."

Al.  From motherfucking Happy Days.  Yes.  That is what he said.

To add some context, here's me the summer I was informed of this remarkable resemblance:

Posing with a mannequin at the leather store where I worked

And here is Al from Happy Days:

Shmerbing around his diner, as per usual

Please tell me you don't get it, either.

However, at the time the boy made that statement, I was so far gone in my romantic fantasy world that I thought I must have misheard him.  So I smiled up at him and said, "What?"

Without a hint of remorse, the boy replied confidently, "Yeah, I don't know if it's the shadows or the moonlight doing something weird with your face, but you seriously look just like Al from Happy Days right now.  It's pretty strange."

And that is the exact moment when romance disappeared from my life forever.  Poof.  Just like that.  I looked at the boy and said, "Oh.  That is strange," then stood up and began walking down the beach in the direction of my car.  I don't really remember what the boy did, as he had been instantaneously compartmentalized into the "Dead To Me" category of humans in my life.

Seventeen years of accumulated anger and sarcasm later, I pity the poor fool who would dare to ask me if I know who I look like in the moonlight.  Even if that sad sucker had planned to say something complimentary, he would be faced with a terrifying glare and the furious, rapid fire response, "I don't know, Dick Cheney?  Alfred Hitchcock?  Tom Petty?  Fuck you, too, buddy!"

Stupid illusory romance.  Hmph.

Al from Happy Days, my ass.