6 foot, no beard, a face card that never declines, ideally a decent man from a good upbringing, and a fat bank. That’s the chant I say to myself and the universe every time I see an oh-so-sweet couple happily holding hands at the Mall Of The Emirates. Funnily enough, after a long and tiring 9-to-6, I’d expect a handsome man, plating my favourite carbonara pasta with just the right amount of sauce and a red wine greeting me once I set foot in my apartment. Instead, it’s a little grey, the lights are switched off, and the smell of yesterday’s Chinese takeout becomes my “Hello, darling.”
I’m 22 years old and I’ve always dreamed about my perfect relationship. I’ve scripted every detail in my manifestation journal, attempting to shift my fantasies into my Desired Reality (DR)–aka a TikTok-born manifestation theory where you “jump” into the life you actually want by writing it out. Yet, despite my wishes for a prince charming to sweep me off my feet, nothing has come to fruition.
So, while I begrudgingly strut in the Mall of the Emirates–passing yet another adorable couple (smh)–I remembered that the movie Materialists was showing at Vox Cinemas. As usual, I booked myself an impromptu Friday night solo date. Mind you, I had no clue what the movie would actually be about. All I knew was that two of my favourite actors, Pedro Pascal and Chris Evans, were playing the leading men opposite Dakota Johnson, who conveniently, was torn between two drop-dead gorgeous guys. Despite having zero expectations about the plot, I walked in with the idea that I’d have a great time watching another rom-com movie. Well, I was dead wrong.
I was vicariously living through Dakota who plays the main character Lucy. She began to fall for a provider archetype. “That is the man of my dreams,” my internal voice shouted.
Pedro played the bachelor Harry Castillo, He was a classic: rich, tall, an absolute eye-candy with a charming smirk that would make anyone’s knees wobble. Lucy, a match-maker with a talent for spotting sparks, called him a “Unicorn.” Unicorn was a term that popped up in the movie, but its rarity was intentional. In the fictional match-making industry, a unicorn is a man who’s too good to be true–the one who seemingly ticks all the boxes for a desirable happily-ever-after. Then there was the first love, Johnny, Chris Evans’ character. He was a wannabe theatre actor chasing his pipe dream, trying to make ends meet with catering gigs (broke, but still a hottie, of course).
Is love something worth investing in?
As someone who is admittedly quite the materialistic person, the choice was painstakingly obvious: I’d pick the man who could spoil me. As shallow as it sounds, that’s the reality I’d choose. As a Gen Z and a self-declared economist, it just makes sense. Lucy’s dilemma hit so close to home because, like her, I tend to frame love as a business transaction. To me, it’s two stakeholders investing–whether emotionally, financially, or both–and if the math isn’t mathing, I’m out.
And I’m not the only one thinking this way. According to a recent survey by matchmaking platform Tawkify, 46 per cent of respondents say they would rather choose a big bank (long-term financial stability) over love. And if the income bar was higher? The better. Practical.
I remember the scene where Harry said a phrase that piqued my interest: “I have enough assets for the both of us.” That was a phrase that made me sit up straight in my seat, because I’m looking for financial stability from a hella good-looking man. As a person who grew up in shifting economies and a family that was just okay financially–sometimes enough, sometimes too little–Harry was the dream man.
My math isn’t mathing
In this era of taxes, hidden fees, and inflation breathing down our necks, my search for love has been one humongous mathematical equation. I obviously suck at maths, and it seems my calculations are not truly summing up to my joy. As someone who never made a move and never tried testing the waters, I played the silent observer in the market, which, frankly, is heading toward an economic downturn. So, it doesn’t make sense to invest in something I have no assurance in. That’s why I simply stepped back from dating entirely; there was no guarantee I would find my one true love in this market.
“You make me valuable,” Lucy says, warming to the idea that her unicorn–who signs off a thousand-dollar bill at a fine dining spot without blinking–might just be Mr. Right. Meanwhile, I sat there in a theatre full of couples and whisper-shouted an “Amen.”
I equated love with the perfect ratio of the love languages: a lot of words of affirmation, the right dose of cuddles, and enough cash to spoil me (exactly like Lucy’s dream idea of a relationship). But as Lucy shifted back into her job, helping clients find love based on a list of strategic, criteria-based qualities, I began to spiral. The couple next to me had their hands clasped, and suddenly my brain went off. “Does the universe hate me? Am I not cute enough? Do I not tick the boxes?” I found myself lost in a train of thought. As I sat in the cold theatre with my half-finished slushie, it hit me: I’ve confined myself to numbers and an unrealistic checklist.
I’ve set my own limitations.
I guess love doesn’t always have a financial ROI
As Lucy realised she and Harry weren’t compatible–seeing love as a business (literally me)–I, too, had to admit my search for love was doomed from the start. It wasn’t bad luck keeping me single; it was that I’d turned love into maths.
But can you blame me? We’re living in an age where everything is constricted to a set of 1’s and 0’s, unpredictable economies, and endless swipes left and right. Of course, it makes sense that Gen Z approaches love with a calculator in hand. Stability isn’t just nice to have; it’s survival. So when the Tawkify survey says half of us would choose financial security over romance, I can’t help but nod.
Still, watching Materialists made me pause. Love, at its core, isn’t a stock to invest in, nor is it an equation that needs to be balanced on the sheets. A realisation I had when Johnny said, “I don’t have anything to offer you, I can’t negotiate. [But] I love you now, like I loved you before. It’s a lifetime guarantee.” *Cue tears and tissues.*
Perhaps this is my sign. Am I about to start running to find my broke-but-passionate Chris Evans? Absolutely not. But I do have clarity in one thing: I need to learn how to stop doing only math and start loving.