The Trouble With Fairytales

Or, #34. “Forget discretion every once in a while and call him up.”

This was a tough one to write. It’s not that I’ve been staring at a blank page—instead, I’ve been haunted by paragraphs on paragraphs in my notes app, waiting for some great revelation. But weeks passed, and nothing came except clarity and resignation.

Vague. If at this point you’re like, “Girl, where is this going?” then welcome to the club. Me too, reader. Me too.

I recently had a romantic experience that started as an email, then a phone call (#34. “Forget discretion every once in a while and call him up.”), then a fairytale, and then, when the dust settled, we could see it for what it was: not going to work out. As much as I’d love to share the juicy details, including what was undoubtedly both the best ask-out and subsequent first date of my life, out of respect for the suitor, I’m going to keep that quiet. Which is a real bummer, because it is one hell of a story.

But therein lies the problem, and that’s what I do feel comfortable writing about: It was one hell of a story.

After ending things, I had what the kids these days (I am the kids) call a “crash out.” Rearranged my bedroom, ran like I was being chased on the treadmill, stared forlornly out to the sea like a sailor waiting for a ship to return home. But this crisis wasn’t over the boy (no offense). He was great—kind, thoughtful, fun, exciting. We can leave it at that. Though this Substack is essentially what brought us together, and #34. “Forget discretion every once in a while and call him up” did actually inspire the phone call; this essay isn’t about him.

It’s about the trouble with fairytales.

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Those who have been following along for some time know that I’m no stranger to a saga. You’ve heard about Boat Enquirer, Wedding Boyfriend, and a certain someone from Hat Box Night. And those are just the characters who made the Substack; I’ve mostly held back from sharing details about those I’ve actually dated over the course of this adventure.

But presently I find myself at a bit of a loss because in both scenarios—the fun stories with no legs or the real romances with too much weight—I expected, at some point, a fairytale ending. I’ve long considered myself to be Goldilocks-in-dating, trying on different feelings until one fits.

Funny thing, about Goldilocks. When I make this reference, I assume we all see the same image of a precocious blonde girl wandering into a harmless bear family’s house, tasting porridge, breaking chairs, and testing beds. It’s a delightful cautionary tale about a home invasion designed to help children understand the idea of “just right.” Not just children, actually. This principle—known as the Goldilocks effect—has been applied across disciplines including psychology, economics, biology, astronomy, and love.

There’s not much heavy lifting needed to apply the Goldilocks theory to dating. It’s a dance of too hot, too cold, too big, too small, too much, not enough. The idea is that eventually you find one that is just right and you’re happy (until a group of bears chases you through the woods).

That said, Goldilocks doesn’t live in the “happily ever after” family of fairy tales. Valuable lesson and applicable principle aside, it’s a pretty twisted story, especially when you take into account the original telling of Goldilocks and the Three Bears.

Goldilocks (Children’s version)

The golden-haired girl romping through the home of a sweet bear family is the second, more palatable edition of Goldilocks. The original version, as written by 19th-century poet Robert Southey, centers on three good-natured, hospitable, fun-time bachelor bears who live in harmony in the woods until one day an evil, selfish, impudent old woman breaks into their house and eats their oatmeal. When they find her, she jumps out of a window and is never seen again. I’m paraphrasing, but you get the idea.

Goldilocks (Southey’s version)

The point is that the fairytale is not always what it seems.

Fairy tales date back 4,000 years, maintained through oral tradition until writers like Southey and the Brothers Grimm (responsible for Cinderella, Rapunzel, Snow White, the Frog Prince, and more) put them on paper. Because they were passed down verbally, it’s difficult to pinpoint when or why these folk tales were first told, but even Wilhelm and Jacob Grimm recognized their history when they set out to preserve this prose in 1812.

Just like the original Goldilocks, the initial versions of the other fairy tales were not cute. They were horrifying—closer to a nightmare than a fantasy. If you want to do a deep dive, I suggest reading Grimms’ Fairy Tales. It’s free on Project Gutenberg. Some bangers in there.

Though the originals are gruesome, they obviously served as fantastic fodder for less intense editions, and the material was molded over time for the masses. Fantasy was spun from fear, and a new dream was sketched with colorful characters and softer smiles. These were the tales that raised us: the ones that taught invaluable life lessons. Follow your heart, talk to mice, kiss amphibians, never trust old women, listen to mirrors, and if a monster locks you in his castle, it’s fine because he’s likely just a hot man waiting to be set free by love.

The other thing in these stories: love conquers all. But what do they teach us about love, really? In Cinderella, we are made to believe the chase is worth the catch, yet we have no idea if the prince and she were compatible beyond basic attraction. Who is he voting for in the mayoral election? What’s his stance on social issues? How many kids does he want? Does he snore?

Fairy tales were never meant to be real. They’ve been warped into the idea that from a big adventure or grand gesture or trial and tribulation, things work out. But I don’t think that’s right, and I’m starting to worry that the mere idea of magic is more hurt than help.

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So how does this connect to 129?

As I struggle to put into words why I feel what I feel, all I can come up with is the conclusion that my fascination with fantasy has prevented me from finding anything honest. It seems I’ve gotten caught up in the idea of a good story.

Which is why it’s time to close the book—at least temporarily.

For a long time, this Substack brought, hopefully, a lot of people joy. It certainly did for me. It was so much fun going on these adventures, and this project genuinely changed my life for the better. I’m not walking away forever (DON’T unsubscribe), but I do think that for the time being, I need to step aside and live in the real world for a change.

Instead of doing everything for the story—instead of BEING the story—I just want to figure out what it all means. The great mysteries of life: love and everything in between. Who knows, maybe I’ll keep working through the list and publish the entries for an eventual tell-all.

I’m certainly not going to stop writing, but I am going to stop giving it away. You know that great Nora Ephron quote, “Everything is copy?” That shit is my guiding principle. I live by it. But I’ve come to realize that while everything is copy, sometimes copy needs time to cook.

I didn’t know when I started #34 that this would be my conclusion. The realization came when I was looking through the list and past posts, trying to figure out what was off. For starters, it made me realize that I’m not really DOING the list items for myself, and I haven’t in some time.

In my journey through the 129 archive, I was struck by a conversation I had early on with the owner of Craftsman Ave, a workshop in Brooklyn. I’d just explained the project while trying to finagle a free knife-making class for #3. “Take classes men like.” He laughed and wished me luck. “You’re going to kiss a lot of frogs.”

Was he a witch?! I’m kidding, but also….

This is not to imply the men I’ve kissed have been slimy or green, but it fits with the idea that, from the start, this project was poised to be a pipe dream. It was always larger than life. It was magical; it made me feel magical.

I miss that feeling. I don’t like that I no longer believe in happy endings. The thing is, ironically, I still love fairy tales. The Princess and the Frog is one of my favorite movies. Tangled slaps. Don’t even get me started on Frozen. But those occupy a different place in my heart and mind. They’re not real, and I want to find the magic in my own world.

I could have just gone radio silent on Substack until I was ready to resume. Still, I wanted to write this because 1) I love niche history, 2) I can’t have my few loyal fans worrying, and 3) it’s okay if things change. It’s okay if who we are now is different from who we were when we started. It’s okay to wave a white flag. And it’s okay to keep trying.

While I look for the spirit of 129, I hope everyone who enjoyed this does too. Do weird things, meet unexpected people, live outside the box. See what you learn.

But don’t do it for the fairytale. Just do it for yourself.

I promise I’ll be back. I don’t know what the story will be yet, but I’ll have something to say when I’m ready. It could be sooner than we think—it might be different from before. Honestly, I’m excited to see what writing feels like, and what comes out, when it’s not just for the plot.

So, thank you for everything, and goodbye—for now.

Emily