Two of my college besties and I once had a discussion (in a long series on this topic) about finding “the one.” We were young and naïve and romantic. We were raised on Disney princesses and John Hughes films. You really can’t blame us. We were women who would be wooed. My friend’s father, George, weighed in.
George was a professor. Calm. Wise. Intellectual. I liked George right up until he explained to us prattling, twenty-one-year-olds that there is no “correct person” singular. A myth. Particularly in regard to marriage, he claimed. He believed a person developed to a point of being ready for lifelong commitment and then just ended up with whoever was across from them at the time.
We were horrified. And we didn’t believe him. We believed in love at first sight. White horses. Kismet. The fairytale we would tell our children and then our grandchildren. We would tell tales of the WOOING. In retrospect, George made some very solid points.
My parents had a rom-com-worthy meet cute. My Mom sat toward the front of the college history class. My Dad sat in the back in his pressed Gant shirts and desert boots. He thought her hair was beautiful. He asked to borrow her history notes one day. This is somewhat ridiculous since he was a history major, and she was not. But it worked. Very smooth move.
I recently ran across the Valentine’s card he gave to her in 1965. It was their first date. They saw a movie and went out for drinks. A Valentine’s card on a first date would be considered a very bold gesture by today’s standards. Over the top. But this Valentine in 1965 remains intact today. Cherished historic artifact. That guy…he wooed.
My last first date was in 1992. We went to the science museum and then out to Green Mill for pizza and hot chocolate. Shortly thereafter my future husband mailed me a cocoa packet with a note written on a napkin from Green Mill. I still have it. What followed were stacks of letters and cards in his now very familiar looping script. Family heirlooms. I was wooed.
This is not how relationships work now. Not the meeting. Not the communication. Not much of it. I can’t pretend to understand what it’s like to date in 2025, but I have adult children and single friends, and the process is quite bewildering to me. The on-ramp to actual dating seems so long that by the time people date, they are about to break up. The phone seems to be the third wheel in modern love stories. I barely trust someone to choose adequate avocadoes for me through an app, but people do get matched and find lifelong commitments through the phone.
Occasionally, I’ve suggested to the young ones they could simply walk up to someone and start a conversation. Create an opportunity. They have assured me that is absolutely out of the question in almost every setting. It seems harder than ever to have a meet cute without an algorithm.
I worry most that they have no written record of their lives. Entire relationships start and end over Snapchat. No love letters. Text threads that get deleted. Accounts that get blocked. Digital photos in the digital trash. Certainly, very few Valentines saved like precious jewels for generations.
I have Rubbermaid tubs in my basement filled with letters from elementary school through young adulthood. So does my husband. Notes from friends written in class. Letters mailed from India and Thailand and France when friends were abroad. I have all of my parent’s Airmail letters when my Dad served in the Army during the Vietnam War. Hundreds of greeting cards.
I have no solutions. But maybe, like consumer purchases…shop local for love. Meet the sellers. Don’t try to find special at a superstore. Get a referral from a friend. The next part is how it has always been. A complete leap of faith. But maybe…send a card or two. Record the unique moment in time in a letter, a card, or the written word, even if you never learned cursive.
Make love last. Write it down.
Jen Fortner is a freelance writer who enjoys asking friends and strangers far too many questions. She spends her spare time sitting in inclement weather watching youth sports, traveling, cooking, and searching for the very best baked goods. She lives in Shorewood with her husband, three children and the most spoiled dog.