I’ve only seen about a thousand romantic comedies in my life. It’s not all of them, but it’s a sizeable chunk out of the genre. And it’s certainly enough to know exactly how I’d want my life to be like a RomCom.
- I don’t need an Indie music montage.
- I don’t want to cry in front of strangers while declaring my love.
- I’m not interested in having a bitter sexually aggressive best friend or a quirky irresponsible little sister.
- I don’t have the nagging mother, the indulgent father, the pet cat, or the adorable vehicle (anymore).
- I don’t want the high paying job that requires seemingly minimal time at work and endless opportunities to go to black tie balls, meet wealthy bachelors, and engage in crazy shenanigans like tipping over a tower of champagne flutes.
- I have no plans to live in New York, L.A., or travel to some place exotic on a crazy whim using all the credit on my card.
- I won’t kid you that I don’t want the leading man. Let’s face it, if I had a meet-cute with [Insert your favorite leading man here] I’d let that little story play out as far as it would go.
But what I DO resonate with is that apartment. That quirky, colorful, aged and worn but happy yellow patchwork apartment. And the giant wine glasses, and the seemingly endless supply of wine. Yeah. At the beginning of the movie when our heroine is puttering around her apartment all alone and we’re supposed to feel sorry for her, all I can think is how can she waste that amazing opportunity??
In an hour and a half she’s going to be selling it, moving in with some boy she kind of knows, but let’s face it, doesn’t really understand, and goodbye apartment, goodbye solo wine drinking, late nights watching A Roman Holiday and eating lasagna in bed.
The next time we see her she’s going to be playing a dramatic lead in some film about the complexities and perils of married life and how difficult it is (think Kate Winslet from The Holiday to Revolutionary Road). She has absolutely no idea how good she has it at this exact moment. Her clothes thrown about the place, and the apartment being so much of her own identity that the second the audience sees it they know who she is. And here comes this guy and sure, he’s suave and attractive, and charming, and adorable. And he’s probably an architect. Or he makes furniture. Or he’s a puppy doctor. But isn’t he mostly just hair gel and a smile in a pastel blue sweater and well fitting jeans?
So anyway, my point is, the real romance of rom-coms is the single life that’s unappreciated. Take time, my friends, to appreciate puttering and lazing, dance parties for one, drinking wine in the tub, and the occasional late-night impulse decision.
Seize the quirky solo nights my friends, while you’ve got them.