In Love in a Movie
In "Sleepless in Seattle," Rosie O'Donnell delivers the verdict on Meg Ryan's principle problem in life: she doesn't want to be in love, she wants to be in love in a movie. She wants the fairytale man to climb her fire escape and whisk her off to the Regent Beverly Wilshire. She wants to meet Mr. Right on top of the Empire State Building. She wants magic.
I want magic too--I don't deny it. But there is little magic in Susie Land. In fact, there's only disaster (or worse, the same old thing). Returning readers might recall a post from February called "Unleashing the Animal Within," where I waxed eloquently on the wild man I was sure rested within the polished exterior of a guy in my class this semester. (If not, refresh your memory here.) Though I never mentioned him here again, he and I did become chummy during the semester. In fact, the last month brought with it some kind of strange transition from casual acquaintances to almost friends, sprinkled liberally with first-grade-like teasing, smiling eyes and strange unsolicited phone calls. But just as shadowy images of magic began to dance at the edges of my brain, a wave of reality washed them away for good.
Standing alone with him at the conference table in my office building after a group meeting that passed its expiration not long after if began more than two hours before, I tried to make my move.
"So, doing anything exciting this weekend?" I asked as a planned prelude to my "let's go get a beer" finale.
"Oh not much," Cute Class Boy replied. "Just hanging out with my grrlfrnd."
It took me a second to realize that last mumbled bit, which came out more like a guttural growl, was indeed the dreaded GF Bomb. Cute Class Boy, the man of my dreams whose children I would gladly have just to experience the conception process, already had a Cute Girl. And Cute Girl was not me.
As he wished me goodnight and I struggled to find a happy face while strong-arming the security system, I couldn't’t help thinking that no romantic comedy heroine--from Meg in "Sleepless" to Julia in, well, any movie she's ever made--ever stood at a Guardian alarm keypad, fighting back tears and wishing that just one time--just one moment in a life filled with unmagic--something out-of-the-ordinary would happen.
If my life were a classic romance, he would have answered, "that depends on what you're doing tonight" when I asked about his weekend plans. His tall frame quickly erasing the distance between us, he would rest an arm on the wall behind me and lean in to me. A hint of a whisper in my ear. "Wanna get a drink?" A quick smile, more of the eyes than of the lips, would be my reward for three months of patience and quiet desperation.
Or maybe, as I stood at the alarm resisting the urge to fall into the arms of despair, I would hear the door open behind me. Turning quickly, I would find him framed in the doorway, hair dripping from the moisture darkening the early evening sky, intensity raining from his eyes.
"I don't love her," he'd say.
I'd remain silent, finally lost for words.
"She's someone I met a few months ago, and we hang out. We have a good time. But I don't love her."
I wouldn't be able to tell if he was convincing himself or me.
"I thought she was everything I wanted. But then this hilarious girl walked into a classroom one night in January. And even though I did all I could to keep my distance, she lured me into her net by just being herself. Smart, nice, funny--and cute."
"God, I can't resist her." He'd gaze into my eyes and try to dispel my confusion with a smile. "I can't resist you."
And then he'd kiss me.
Or maybe he'd just grab me in his arms, throw me on the floor and say "I'm doing one thing this weekend and it's you."
My reality might have been watching him walk into the rain on that miserable Friday and coming to terms once again with my ability to consistently fixate on men who never want me and apparent perpetual state of spinsterhood, but I can't help imagining it were different. Feminists the world over blame Hollywood for woman's obsession with romance, for reinforcing the Cinderella fairytale, but I refuse to believe that there's not a man out there who will someday, somewhere, be lured into my net just because I'm me. Someone who will skip the bathroom break during class to sit and talk to me. Someone who calls me for no real reason on a Thursday night just to hear my voice.
Sure, he might only exist in a movie, but I think he's out there somewhere, wandering the Pittsburgh streets. If my life were a movie, my phone would ring right now and he'd ask me out for a beer tomorrow after work. But since this is reality, I'll just pop "While You Were Sleeping" into the DVD and hope that there's enough magic left in the universe to steer him in my direction again.
I want magic too--I don't deny it. But there is little magic in Susie Land. In fact, there's only disaster (or worse, the same old thing). Returning readers might recall a post from February called "Unleashing the Animal Within," where I waxed eloquently on the wild man I was sure rested within the polished exterior of a guy in my class this semester. (If not, refresh your memory here.) Though I never mentioned him here again, he and I did become chummy during the semester. In fact, the last month brought with it some kind of strange transition from casual acquaintances to almost friends, sprinkled liberally with first-grade-like teasing, smiling eyes and strange unsolicited phone calls. But just as shadowy images of magic began to dance at the edges of my brain, a wave of reality washed them away for good.
Standing alone with him at the conference table in my office building after a group meeting that passed its expiration not long after if began more than two hours before, I tried to make my move.
"So, doing anything exciting this weekend?" I asked as a planned prelude to my "let's go get a beer" finale.
"Oh not much," Cute Class Boy replied. "Just hanging out with my grrlfrnd."
It took me a second to realize that last mumbled bit, which came out more like a guttural growl, was indeed the dreaded GF Bomb. Cute Class Boy, the man of my dreams whose children I would gladly have just to experience the conception process, already had a Cute Girl. And Cute Girl was not me.
As he wished me goodnight and I struggled to find a happy face while strong-arming the security system, I couldn't’t help thinking that no romantic comedy heroine--from Meg in "Sleepless" to Julia in, well, any movie she's ever made--ever stood at a Guardian alarm keypad, fighting back tears and wishing that just one time--just one moment in a life filled with unmagic--something out-of-the-ordinary would happen.
If my life were a classic romance, he would have answered, "that depends on what you're doing tonight" when I asked about his weekend plans. His tall frame quickly erasing the distance between us, he would rest an arm on the wall behind me and lean in to me. A hint of a whisper in my ear. "Wanna get a drink?" A quick smile, more of the eyes than of the lips, would be my reward for three months of patience and quiet desperation.
Or maybe, as I stood at the alarm resisting the urge to fall into the arms of despair, I would hear the door open behind me. Turning quickly, I would find him framed in the doorway, hair dripping from the moisture darkening the early evening sky, intensity raining from his eyes.
"I don't love her," he'd say.
I'd remain silent, finally lost for words.
"She's someone I met a few months ago, and we hang out. We have a good time. But I don't love her."
I wouldn't be able to tell if he was convincing himself or me.
"I thought she was everything I wanted. But then this hilarious girl walked into a classroom one night in January. And even though I did all I could to keep my distance, she lured me into her net by just being herself. Smart, nice, funny--and cute."
"God, I can't resist her." He'd gaze into my eyes and try to dispel my confusion with a smile. "I can't resist you."
And then he'd kiss me.
Or maybe he'd just grab me in his arms, throw me on the floor and say "I'm doing one thing this weekend and it's you."
My reality might have been watching him walk into the rain on that miserable Friday and coming to terms once again with my ability to consistently fixate on men who never want me and apparent perpetual state of spinsterhood, but I can't help imagining it were different. Feminists the world over blame Hollywood for woman's obsession with romance, for reinforcing the Cinderella fairytale, but I refuse to believe that there's not a man out there who will someday, somewhere, be lured into my net just because I'm me. Someone who will skip the bathroom break during class to sit and talk to me. Someone who calls me for no real reason on a Thursday night just to hear my voice.
Sure, he might only exist in a movie, but I think he's out there somewhere, wandering the Pittsburgh streets. If my life were a movie, my phone would ring right now and he'd ask me out for a beer tomorrow after work. But since this is reality, I'll just pop "While You Were Sleeping" into the DVD and hope that there's enough magic left in the universe to steer him in my direction again.
2 Comments:
I hereby nominate Susie for the Pulitzer Prize for the Single Girls' Lost in Thought and Desperation, Wondering Why Everyone Else Has Such a Great Life Except Them Category. (tm)
As usual, Susie rocks my world, and it is a shame she is wasting away in a cubicle, in corporate/university writing hell, when, clearly, she has major talent that is being terribly stifled. She makes me want to write again, and she makes me proud to be her friend.
thanks man! (sniff)
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