I’ve always fancied Bridget Jones. She’s a total badass, and like any girl, I’d like to think I’d deal with all of her mortifying scenarios as gracefully as she does. (Instead I would probably hide under the covers for ten years, replaying everything in my head).
For Bridget, Mr. Darcy is the one (obviously) and always has been. We know that because the movies tell us so.
But on paper, he’s a complete dick.
Think about it: here is a smart, handsome, sensitive guy who has been in and out of her life over the past ten years but just couldn’t commit [to her]. Any girlfriend of hers would be telling her to get the fuck over him. He married someone else, for God’s sake! But it’s Colin Firth playing a chivalrous British lawyer, so it’s all good.
Look, full disclaimer, I’m a little more attune to this storyline as a girl who has had her own Mr. Darcy in and our of her own life for the past decade.
To every girl out there thinking there’s such a thing as a Mr. Darcy – a soulmate who just hasn’t worked out ‘yet’ – be smart. If he doesn’t scoop you up the moment he sees you wearing an equally ugly Christmas sweater, he’s not the one.
So tonight I watched “Dirty Dancing” for the very first time. (I can hear the gasps as I type this.) It wasn’t intentional; whatever was on Bravo ended, and this came on, and out of rebellion for not having seen it, I tried to see what else was on… but alas, decided to conform to what apparently is a classic movie.
And I won’t lie: I was very confused in the beginning because I thought it was supposed to be about how dancing was outlawed in a town.
Please indulge me as I share my many thoughts about it (full disclaimer, I did miss the first 15 minutes):
I now get why Patrick Swayze was idolized in that era. Definitely a hunkiness about him.
‘Baby’ is a STUPID nickname, and there’s nothing to be ashamed about being named the after the first female in the Cabinet (pretty badass your parents are that savvy and want to name you after a glass ceiling-breaker).
Is this movie where the idea of having a ‘summer fling’ originated in our culture? I mean, no one really thinks that Baby and Johnny stay together, right?
Do you think, in real life, Johnny and Baby would look each other up on Facebook after they’ve both gone on with their separate lives, separate families and try to reconnect?
I won’t lie; I was incredibly unsatisfied with this movie. It almost made me want to learn to dance like that. Key word: almost.
When you’re growing up, sometimes you think about how old you’ll be when you get married, when you have kids, when you really hit the sweet success of your career.
It wasn’t until the other day, when my best friend and I were having some wine and watching whatever was on TV, when we realized how Hollywood perpetuates that age. That so unrealistic age.
- Sweet Home Alabama – First and foremost, fantastic movie. Hands-down. But if you do the math, you realize that Melanie and Jake have been married for seven years, straight out of high school. That puts her at about 25ish. A 25ish year old who is the head of a major fashion label. In New York City. REALLY?
- Forgetting Sarah Marshall (this happened to come on FX right after the aforementioned movie) – In the movie, when Sarah finds out her TV show has just been cancelled, she starts lamenting about nearing the age of 30. She is a successful famous sitcom actress vacationing at a Hawaiian resort and worrying about the end of her career. REALLY?
DISCLAIMER: I am not a famous actress or fashion designer. I have not been married for seven years. In fact, I have never married at all.
Am I just sensitive to the age of those portrayed in Hollywood? Bitter at how these fictional characters become so widely successful at such young ages?
To try to prove my own point, I figured Kristen Bell was much older than the character she was playing in Forgetting Sarah Marshall and Googled it. But no, she was playing a 28 year-old as a 28 year-old. Ugh.
No really, that’s what the doctor said to me.
Well, actually, it’s what his assistant said to me, and then he exclaimed to her, “You stole my line!”
I had done all my research months ago and found the most acclaimed doctor in town. He even had a YouTube channel explaining everything and doing demonstrations. I suffer from chronic migraines, but not enough to cash in on the insurance-covered Botox.
He entered the room, half-confused by my nervous virgin face, slash, half-not caring since I wasn’t paying thousands for a face-lift, then introduced himself by his FIRST name. As if we’d just met on an app and were having casual drinks to get to know each other better.
It didn’t hurt at all, and to be honest, I didn’t hate it.
My best friend can’t even tell that I look different. And I LOVE it – no more migraines.
You know what I don’t love though? The cost. Yikes. Immediate guilt when I handed over that credit card. Guessing those Housewives don’t have the student debt I do to worry about.
Will I do it again? Ask me in 3-4 months when it’s time to revisit and the migraines come back.