I’ve always taken pride in the fact that I have no addictions. Coffee never tasted right to me and despite my roommate’s attempts to convert me to the caffeine addicted masses, I escaped unscathed.

Smoking was always a no brainer, I enjoy fresh clean air too much and have a rather sensitive nose. Being Muslim, alcohol was never an issue and so I felt pretty good about that. A little too smug. Now I’m realizing that I might be mistaken. Sure I’m not addicted to any illegal substances, nor do I have any yearning for things that may cause me physical harm, but I’m starting to suspect that I do have an addiction. An addiction to fantasy and romance. I’ve always loved books and movies and that feeling of being transported to another place and another reality. I was the kid that was enthralled with those old black and white TNT classic movies like Gone with the Wind, Gigi, Singing in the Rain and the like. I would be so absorbed that I couldn’t hear my mother calling me though she was in the same room as me. I would spend hours reading Jane Austen, Lois Lowry and so many authors too numerous to count. Whether their stories were political like 1984 and Animal Farm, or fictionalized histories like Les Miserables or a Tale of Two Cities it made no difference. Whether they were short stories, novels or thousand page books like Fountainhead I loved them. I loved getting lost in those worlds, in those fantasies. And for the brief moments I was reading those books I was in my own universe, and I was riding my own kind of high. One that wouldn’t end when I turned the last page because the stories were still with me, still in my mind.

Recently I read somewhere that romance is an invention of the western world. Something that’s designed like television and malls to distract the masses and make them more pliable and controllable. I understand the power of the media to divert us, to force their opinions on us and to give us either a favorable or a negative perception of an event. The biggest example being the media’s one dimensional portrayal of Islam and Muslims.

That’s why I started thinking deeper about my love of books and romance and whether it’s a good or a bad thing. And how bad or how good it is. Like millions of people around the world, I fell in love with Twilight and I devoured the other three books, New Moon, Eclipse and Breaking Dawn. Like many women I love the idealized version of romance portrayed by Edward and Bella. But I understand that it’s false and I don’t agree with everything in the stories. But I can’t help but wonder. Has my perception of reality been irrevocably altered by the years and years of romance in my head from books and movies? Do I unconsciously expect any man vying for my affections to be a perfect gentleman like Edward? To be so overcome like Mr. Darcy? Do I have an unrealistic idea of what men are capable of being? And have I turned away decent perfectly wonderful men because I dreamed of more? I wonder if my addiction will be my downfall. Have I turned myself so completely into a heroine like the characters in the books I’ve read. Am I stubbornly and pointlessly waiting for my amalgam of Mr. Perfect and Prince Charming to show up someday? And is the world of romance just setting me up for failure? Is the illusion of romance responsible for the increasing rates of divorce in our generation? Do more and more women (and some men too) go into marriage with ridiculous notions of what love and marriage are? Do they then end up being disappointed not because their reality is bad, but because their expectations were too unrealistic?

I don’t have the answers, but I am making the effort to think about it, and I’m wondering if anyone else is as well…?