Curse you, Meg Ryan/John Cusack/Renée Zellweger/Marisa Tomei/Joseph Gordon-Levitt.
You’ve misled me.
You made me believe I could exchange a flurry of written communications (then, letters; now, emails) and then meet my pen pal atop the Empire State Building to begin a life that will undoubtedly be wedded bliss. I could hold a blast a love song on a boom box outside Mr. Right’s home and not only avoid neighbour/police intervention, but also win his heart. I could have a weight problem, a few addictions and constantly embarrass myself and still end up with Colin Firth!
Oh, how you taunt.
I know it’s all a ruse and yet I fall under your deceptive spell over and over again. As recently as last night, in fact. Yep, I rented Love Actually. Third time—and that’s not a charm, it’s a strikeout. Watching you, I learned that love is all around. Whether you’re a porn actor, a person who cannot speak the same language as people in your environment or an eleven-year-old kid, love is
right in front of you. Just take it! It’s yours!
Curses, curses, curses. (Portuguese translation for Colin Firth’s character: #%!*, ^$#*, */!#.)
I resolve to go a whole month without watching a romantic comedy. I shall chuck my Sleepless in Seattle, When Harry Met Sally and About Last Night tapes behind the stacks of boxes in the closet in the basement. May mice poop all over you! I shall resist seeing any movie starring Jennifer Aniston. I shall not sit through even five minutes of ABC’s “Bachelor Pad”. (Okay, that part is easy. It’s like swearing off fruitcake when starting a diet.)
In a week or two, I will feel my life changing. I will no longer pivot after passing a beautiful man, expecting to see him looking back with longing. (That whiplash issue involving my neck will be resolved, saving me hundreds of dollars in chiropractic bills.) I will not expect Prince Charming to shelter me under his umbrella during an unexpected downpour. And I will come to accept that the adorable, brainy guy behind the counter at the bakery will never memorize my complex drink order (large of the dark blend), much less learn my name and chat me up about the poetry of Emily Dickinson, Anita Baker’s best songs or Vancouver’s “bummer summer”.
Yes, I shall be free. Free at last!
At least until mid-September.
You’ve misled me.
You made me believe I could exchange a flurry of written communications (then, letters; now, emails) and then meet my pen pal atop the Empire State Building to begin a life that will undoubtedly be wedded bliss. I could hold a blast a love song on a boom box outside Mr. Right’s home and not only avoid neighbour/police intervention, but also win his heart. I could have a weight problem, a few addictions and constantly embarrass myself and still end up with Colin Firth!
Oh, how you taunt.
I know it’s all a ruse and yet I fall under your deceptive spell over and over again. As recently as last night, in fact. Yep, I rented Love Actually. Third time—and that’s not a charm, it’s a strikeout. Watching you, I learned that love is all around. Whether you’re a porn actor, a person who cannot speak the same language as people in your environment or an eleven-year-old kid, love is
right in front of you. Just take it! It’s yours!
Curses, curses, curses. (Portuguese translation for Colin Firth’s character: #%!*, ^$#*, */!#.)
I resolve to go a whole month without watching a romantic comedy. I shall chuck my Sleepless in Seattle, When Harry Met Sally and About Last Night tapes behind the stacks of boxes in the closet in the basement. May mice poop all over you! I shall resist seeing any movie starring Jennifer Aniston. I shall not sit through even five minutes of ABC’s “Bachelor Pad”. (Okay, that part is easy. It’s like swearing off fruitcake when starting a diet.)
In a week or two, I will feel my life changing. I will no longer pivot after passing a beautiful man, expecting to see him looking back with longing. (That whiplash issue involving my neck will be resolved, saving me hundreds of dollars in chiropractic bills.) I will not expect Prince Charming to shelter me under his umbrella during an unexpected downpour. And I will come to accept that the adorable, brainy guy behind the counter at the bakery will never memorize my complex drink order (large of the dark blend), much less learn my name and chat me up about the poetry of Emily Dickinson, Anita Baker’s best songs or Vancouver’s “bummer summer”.
Yes, I shall be free. Free at last!
At least until mid-September.
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