College students are no strangers to the trials and tribulations of romance. Crushing on the cute student in psychology who never seems to notice you, or if they do notice, obsessing over the secret meaning behind everything. Sorting out love drama could be a full-time job, if only we weren’t already attending school full time.
But being a journalist in love introduces a whole new dimension to romantic woes. There’s more to worry about than date clothes and whether or not her comment about bananas being her favorite fruit was a thinly veiled innuendo. There’s a whole bevy of new problems that we journalists must battle in order to explore the world of love:
Priorities. I’m sorry, but no matter how attractive, funny or charming you are, you will always rank fourth on the list of priorities behind the news, food and sleep, if you’re dating a journalist. Maybe, if you really are all that wonderful, you’ll rank ahead of sleep. But only because we journalists run on caffeine and breaking stories anyway.
Time. Aside from the fact that journalists are all about deadlines and are constantly focused on whatever story is due next, we also have no free time to spare for romantic evenings. I once dated a man who worked for a local news organization, and in between his editing responsibilities and my reporting duties, we hardly had time to see each other. We tried all right, scheduling dinner dates for midnight, but after 14 hours of school and work, all I could really do was eat and stare at the wall.
Newsworthy. Depending on how you look at it, journalists can either make terrible or wonderful significant others. You will always know what’s going on locally and internationally, but that might get old after a while. Also, prepare to have your grammar and word choice frequently critiqued. We can’t help it; we’re trained this way.
Rivalry: Yeah, remember that guy who worked for another news outlet? Let’s just say whenever he floated a question along the lines of, “Hey, so what are you working on at the Mustang lately?” I became convinced that our whole relationship was built on a lie so that he could mine the paper for possible news sources. Lord knows, I tried to spy on his work often enough.
Which brings me to my sad and unavoidable conclusion; I don’t like it, but somebody had to admit it sooner or later. Romance and journalism are like barbecue sauce and chocolate: both nice things, of which I am fond of, but the two should never mix.