How I “fell” for Robert Pattinson: The courtship

Every week I consider posting these (long) “How I fell for Rob” posts knowing I love to read them but wondering if anyone else does. You all seem to. Every Sunday this is one of the top posts of the week! Enjoy this week’s story!

Dearest Robert Pattinson,

About three things I am absolutely positive:

First, I am an almost-thirty-year-old woman with two college degrees, a semi-important job, and a firm grasp on reality. Second, I have for several years been ecstatically married to a man who is only one step removed from perfection. And third, I am unconditionally and irrevocably obsessed with you.†

"I can't remember how to form a complete sentence...Also did you just SEE my dad's dance moves?"

I struggled against your thrall for weeks. Our first encounter happened long before I read the books. One day while trolling the Internet gossip sites working diligently on some TPS reports, I came across a link to video of your visit to the Ellen Degeneres show. Curious to examine the subject of all the hoopla and hubbub I had heretofore ignored, I watched you in all your barely-intelligible, curiously-coiffed semi-cuteness. Meh. Shortly thereafter, as we drove by our local movie theater, my husband asked if I intended to watch ‘that “Twilight” movie.’ “No, I might when it hits video,” I casually tossed off, certain that he would interpret my blasé response as proof that I wasn’t about to be spoon-fed such commercial tween drivel. The movie left the theater without my even noticing. An avid reader, I did occasionally feel a twinge of doubt about my haughty view toward reading the Twilight books. On the one hand, I took pride in appreciating classic literature and had recently renewed a dusty resolve to broaden my literary repertoire – not to mention that the Twilight series was (in my mind) for emo teens, and I had neither the trench coat and fedora necessary to disguise my skulking around the “Young Adult” section nor the internal fortitude necessary to hand my purchase over to the bookstore clerk without clasping my cellphone to my ear and pretending to reassure my “niece” that yes, I had found the books she wanted and was buying them right then. On the other hand, Meyer’s novels were pretty and shiny and long and sure to be filled with DRAMA! and ROMANCE! and ANGST! – a triple-threat that sounded a siren call to that girl inside of me – the one who melted every time Johnny pulled Baby out of the corner. It was my younger sister who finally exposed this Achilles heel. She bought Twilight while visiting me. Concealing my weakness with a thin veneer of thriftiness, I suggested that, since she had already bought the book, I should give it a try. She returned to California and, bless her, mailed me the book when she was finished reading.

What will happen? Will she love it? Will she hate it? Find out after the jump

The highs

I remember very little of the following week. Somehow, my husband and animals received adequate nourishment. Apparently, I paid enough attention at work to avoid dismissal. The world, it seems, did keep turning that Saturday to Saturday. But only outside my head. Inside, where you now lived, time stood still. Except for a dark, dismal two days between reading Twilight and frantically searching for New Moon, wherein I cursed all local book retailers, gnashed my teeth, and rent my garments in twain.

Our courtship since has been a roller-coaster of highs and lows.

The highs: Watching the movie (ad the aforementioned husband’s nauseum) and witnessing your questionable superb acting talent as you bring Edward to (ahem) life. Finding LTT and LTR and realizing that I AM normal, in a special kind of way. Having a close friend casually mention that she “liked” the movie and books, only for each of us to (tentatively, cautiously) reveal the depths of our Robsession to each other in the way of kindred spirits. Picturing you in a myriad of daydreams – handing me the pitcher from over my head and staring deep into my eyes while whispering, “As you wish;” crawling over the evil sheriff you have just vanquished and clutching me to your chest while vowing, “I would DIE for you;” and ending our ice-skating routine with a dramatic, sweaty flourish and the demand that I “remember who said it first.”

The Lows

The lows: Reading to the end of Midnight Sun and feeling bereft and not a little unsatisfied with only the cursory glimpse into your Edward’s head (Stephenie Meyer, you are a book tease). Having my niece ask if we can watch “Twilight” the next time she visits, and thrilling as we plan a night of popcorn, blankets on the couch, and generally girliness that threatens to send me into spasms of glee that I now have a family cohort with which to share you. Remembering my niece is six. Typing – and meaning – the word “squee” no less than six times.

In closing, I would like to offer you a few solemn vows, and elicit a few from you in return.

I vow to always be enchanted by your awkward, inept funny, charming personality. I vow to be ever thankful to Dick and Clare for procreating, and for their success that you aren’t a buttertooth. I vow to vociferously support Robsten, so that next year, upon repeating your win of the MTV Movie Best Kiss Award, the two of you can (passionately and in full view of all cameras) repent of your wretched mistake this past show.

In exchange, I’d like you to promise me just a few things.

Please promise me that you will stop making movies outside of the Twilight franchise unless the character is sewn from Edwardian cloth. I know this might be somewhat limiting, but think of the potential pitfalls you’ll avoid. Trust. Please promise me that Robsten is 4ever. As I am firmly committed to honoring my marriage vows, there is only one other girl with whom I want you to spend the rest of your life, and she is named Bella Kristen. Please promise that, if you insist on maintaining this facade of friendship, and thereby depriving us of any RL romance, you will continue to be circumspect, thus sparing us the horror of an RPattz/Paris Hilton sighting, the torture of more Camilla Belle rumblings, or the despair of those niggling questions about TomStu. You know what I’m talking about.

Thank you, Rob, for being your adorkable, irresistible self. For being you. For being.

(Fervently hope to) See you in my dreams,
Name Withheld to Protect the Alternately Defiant/Mortified

† Unapologetic bastardization.

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