Tuesday, July 08, 2003
This very moment, I am undeniably and frustratingly jetlagged. three am and wide eyed; dunno about bushy tailed. I watched How to Lose a Guy in Ten days on the 'plane, and thought, how funny. I could write a movie called "How to Lose a Girl in Ten Years". It turned out to be yet another sentimental chick flick, which, I suspect guys are really drawn to - or perhaps it's just me? Morbidly drawn to, like a moth to the fire. Sweet, sentimental, interspersed with loads of funny moments, then towards the end, a painful, bittersweet buildup to the ultimately saccharrine ending. And as always, I felt sad watching the sweet finale. Part of the reason why I hate sentimental movies; part of the reason perhaps I can identify with women and not-quite need to pretend to be teary (although, thankfully, I don't actually tear! I swear!) at the end of a sweet, funny movie. And in the deepest recesses of my heart, I tell myself yet again, I will NEVER watch another chick flick, even in the darkest, deepest emptiness of ennui, even if I've finished reading Harry Potter 6 or what have you, and am stuck with nothing to do on the 'plane, ever again. Never ever.
And I know I'll do it again on the flight back to Hearthrow.
And why do I get sad? Probably because I know that's not how it happens in real life. Haven't you noticed they almost all invariably end the same way? With someone, usually the guy, realising he's been wrong and that it is of the utmost import that he has to run headlong, on motorcycle or open-topped convertible, after the object of his desire and mouth off some cheesy, sweet line that melts her heart and persuades her not to leave.
Except in real life, what really happens is dejection, and the conviction that she really doesn't really want to see him anymore, ever. What happens is a quiet form of cowardice, is an overwhelming desire not to hurt her anymore, not to do anything she doesn't want. What happens, is no flurry of flailing limbs, but instead a quiet lean-to against the cold concrete walls somewhere at Baker Street station, sliding limply to the floor to sit there, in the cold darkness of winter, trying to blot out the million thoughts flitting through a mind feeling wholly unable to contain them anymore; is several hours of quiet, sightless contemplation; trying to hold back the flood of sadness. And eventually, an unfolding of limbs and a mundane train-ride back home.
And I know I'll do it again on the flight back to Hearthrow.
And why do I get sad? Probably because I know that's not how it happens in real life. Haven't you noticed they almost all invariably end the same way? With someone, usually the guy, realising he's been wrong and that it is of the utmost import that he has to run headlong, on motorcycle or open-topped convertible, after the object of his desire and mouth off some cheesy, sweet line that melts her heart and persuades her not to leave.
Except in real life, what really happens is dejection, and the conviction that she really doesn't really want to see him anymore, ever. What happens is a quiet form of cowardice, is an overwhelming desire not to hurt her anymore, not to do anything she doesn't want. What happens, is no flurry of flailing limbs, but instead a quiet lean-to against the cold concrete walls somewhere at Baker Street station, sliding limply to the floor to sit there, in the cold darkness of winter, trying to blot out the million thoughts flitting through a mind feeling wholly unable to contain them anymore; is several hours of quiet, sightless contemplation; trying to hold back the flood of sadness. And eventually, an unfolding of limbs and a mundane train-ride back home.
