01.01.70
I was a devastate. More than that, I was a wreck whose job it was to watch a minimum of half a dozen rom coms a week. I emit my days at the library, reading about the genre and taking regular weeping breaks that attracted pitying glances from the course desk clerks. I spent my nights in bed with my laptop, watching as Kate and Katherine and Meg and Julia and Drew all found unadulterated love, taking notes and nursing my very broken heart.
My soul had very quickly started to resemble the very genre I was studying. A feminist rom com man is dumped by her wonderful boyfriend on the night before Valentine's Day and has to spend the next year (or three) studying movies in which amity always –- always -– conquers all? My sister was right: it was a perfect set up for a nostalgic comedy.
Of course, in many ways, my life looked nothing like a fanciful comedy. For one thing, in a romantic comedy, I would weigh about thirty pounds less than I currently do. I would be cack-handed, in an endearing, humanizing sort of way. My apartment would be impeccably decorated, not to make known unrealistically large for someone living on a grad student's meager allowance. Perhaps I would have a wise Black doorman, and a hilarious gay roommate -– or, to check a investigate all the token boxes at once, a sage and sassy gay Black roommate who has no job or warmth life of his own and no purpose on earth except to comfort and advise me. My wardrobe would be full of smarmy dresses and snug designer jeans that, in real life, I could only provide if I eschewed buying groceries and paying my ConEd bill.
Source: Jezebel