Grump Seeks Sunshine
Do you want a bad boy? Or are YOU the bad boy?
Spend any time running your hands across the spines at The Ripped Bodice, and the so-called “sunshine + grump” trope is all over: sweet baker meets surly chef; talkative tenant meets spiky landlord; brainy sports reporter meets arrogant football star. It all goes back to the thinking woman's Urtext heterosexual fantasy, the Fitzwilliam Darcy; he may project coldness, but contains wellsprings of passion. He might not always say the right thing, but when rubber hits the road, will throw down for you with all his might.
Arrogance, surliness, and brooding are masculine-coded. The “strong and silent” domain is not for the femmes, who at worst can be fiery and fast-talking – when we are not too busy being cheerful, goofy, clumsy, and sweet. When we as readers –or as daters– encounter the Mr Darcy archetype, we desire to crack it open, knock down his walls, and uncover the sensitive soul within. We pine for the hidden depth we just “know” is there (and sometimes, isn’t).
Many women are a fool for the trope of the secretly-sensitive boor – I romanticize it more than most, perhaps. In our early 20s, my friend once posed a dating hypothetical that has stuck with me through the years: would you rather date someone “smart with the capacity to be mean” or “dumb with the tendency to be nice”? I was the only one to choose smart/mean hands down over dumb/nice. No brainer!
Have I ever landed this hot, intellectual meanie? Not for lack of trying. I still deeply desire (but am inevitably stonewalled) by cold, mysterious, haughty types who –in the rare instances I can induce them to even meet up– are even more disappointed by me than I by them. I pull out all the stops to be likeable, keeping up a merry patter of conversation, slinging a joke per minute ratio you wouldn’t believe, fueled by anxiety, adrenaline, and alcohol. Hello, sunshine!
It has not been a winning strategy.
Self-reflection can come in the strangest of places. Like, for instance, the aforementioned romance novel aisle. Emily Henry’s 2020 book Beach Read is more-or-less one of your basic “sunshine meets grump” setups, wherein a romance novelist collides with her brooding, literary next-door neighbor. It is also the first time I’ve read a (hetero) romance novel and identified with a man more than a woman. Intimacy issues, poor communication skills, big feelings, and a morbid fascination with death cults? That’s so ME, baby.
As a result, it was also the first time I considered – what if I don’t want to have the Mr. Darcy? What if I am the Mr. Darcy? My repeated failures with cracking the icy types I desired were perhaps a matter of me fighting my nature. They have forced me to play the role of sunshine, when my true calling is the grump.
I myself am not a very “nice” person. In my professional partnership with Andrew, most who encounter us as a team will incorrectly assume that he is the “bad cop” and I am the “good cop,” mostly on account of his resting facial expression, akin to that of a persian cat. When in reality, I am the slower to warm, the harder to befriend, and the harder-nosed in judgment. The one infinitely more likely to remember that very dumb thing you did, and remark upon it later. I am not unkind and I am not ungenerous but I am not, historically, nice.
Gripped by the knowledge that this is an obvious liability in my desire to cultivate a dating life, I have played against type heavily. When it comes to a first date, you’ve never met a warmer listening ear: someone who will validate the very worst of your stories and your questionable behaviors; someone who will always smile; who will keep a flagging conversation going at all costs; and who will all but perform a full soft-shoe routine for your approval. I don’t know this jester, and she makes me uncomfortable, but I inhabit her fully every time the prospect of “romance” arises.
Alas, this dinner-and-a-show routine is frankly exhausting, and difficult to maintain beyond a first meeting. The fact is: you cannot fake sunshine. If the cheery sweetie pie’s attractive qualities are not my own, then neither are her deficits: heart on her sleeve, too quick to fall hard, knows how she feels, and isn’t afraid to spill her guts. I would NEVER be accused of such lengths of social pleasantry.
My deficiencies are instead those of the grump: private, sometimes-awkward, feels deeply but avoidantly; much rather putting it into an elegantly penned letter of proposal than saying a word to your face. It’s just that it had never before occurred to me that a little grouchiness was even an option for me, rather than simply playing the foil to my dates. For me being the grump means not pandering for approval. It means not pretending to be pleased by things I find displeasing. It maybe even means being accused of being “mean” when I’m not accommodating.
Well, now that it’s out there…there's nothing for it. It is time for me to let the mask drop and go full Darcy.
Long silences? Let's go! Loaded eye contact? Sure. Making people wonder, what is she thinking? Yep! That also means I've had it with the brooding men. Mama, I AM a brooding man.
Bring on the sweethearts, the bleeding hearts, the earnest and the optimists. Bring me your fast-talking, bookish Lizzy Bennets, world, this bad boy is ready.
You may rightly conclude that my core problem remains: I idealize being aloof, mysterious, and lofty, whether in others, or myself. Call me a romantic; I'm just not ready to drop the Darcy trope entirely. I desire for people to want to crack my façade. For people to see the soft, deeply-feeling interior just beyond the impenetrable exoskeleton. You can be difficult, and you can be stubborn, and you can be uncommunicative, and someone will still want to love you. Um…Right? Hey, I’m not sure, but this summer, I'll be trying my worst.
This week, it’s time to get ready for summer — instead of our regular radio show playlist, here’s a megamix to get you into the spirit:
NOT the point, but have you found any "black cat" fmc's you've liked reading? Wondering if you'd enjoy some books where the trope is deliberately reversed...
Very well penned.
I always knew we had more in common than the obvious work/radio/what the Fak are we even doing here stuff.
Welcome to the club, Ms. Darcy.