I’ve had a long time to think. Specifically: three days in a Penske truck with my dad, driving from Atlanta, Georgia, to Cape Elizabeth, Maine. Among the topics of my mental discussion were: what the hell had a Yankee like myself been doing that far south of the Mason/Dixon? When 18 year-old me left Maine for New York City, did I ever think I would move anywhere else? Considering how much New York City meant/means to me, what on earth COULD have made me move anywhere else? And more importantly: the love that HAD moved me…it being gone…what now?
I’ll tell you what now: I became the girl who, following a break-up, has to move back in with her parents.
It’s hard enough being a chick in a break-up. The cliches…oh, the cliches. I am pleased to report that I have yet to seek solace in a pint of ice cream–that’s just not a stereotype I feel like fulfilling. When your spoon hits the bottom of a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Everything-But-Her-Rum(p) Pecan Crunch, what have you found? There is no redemption in Badonkadonk Chunk. How is the consumption of fatty, highly-caloric, no-no food supposed to make me feel better? Is it rebellion? Maybe that sort of “dress-size-be-damned” indulgence is some kind of act of defiance against the patriarchy, a symbolic stab at the male-what-did-you-wrong (regardless of sexual orientation, I think we all have the dominant gender-paradigm thrust upon us, and women often find themselves defining their actions, emotions, even identities, in terms of said paradigm). A kind of “I am sad, and not even your thinspired media machine can keep my taste buds from this here Choco-mint Fudge Buddy, sirrah!” Such a diatribe is probably best punctuated with a finger-jab to the sky, but I’m sorry: I have no desire to live in a Cathy comic (chocolate! bikini season! horizontal stripes!).
You also will not find me curled up on the couch crying over a movie that might in any way, shape, or form, fall into the category of “chick flick” (and as a self-identified “chick,” I would appreciate it if that word was not aligned with such excretainment, but what can you do?). If you can get past the overwrought schmaltz and sentimentality (if, indeed!), you’ll find little more than a re-iteration of–again–that dirty little gender paradigm. Dudes are dudes, and chicks are chicks. They might as well be two different species (or, say, from different planets). Yet despite this, we’ll see, in the course of 90-120 minutes, that one dude and one chick can enter into a lasting relationship based on understanding, equality (!!!), respect, and even love, hypothetically culminating in a legally binding and spiritually sanctified union in which two become one. Yeah, ok. If you can’t see the mixed messages there, then I’ll leave you to your Maca-shame-ia Nut Cluster.
Despite my dislike for chick-flicks, I have to say that one in particular has been stuck in my head recently, and it is Hope Floats. Yes, that great piece of cinema (inexplicably directed by Forest Whitaker) featuring the acting powerhouse, Sandra Bullock. It sticks in my craw for one reason: it is the story of a woman who, upon the dissolution of her marriage, must leave the life she had made for herself, and move back in with her parents. Granted, the details are different, but that kind of feels like my story at the moment, specifically the part about the inevitability of a single woman’s path leading straight back to the homestead. In the case of this Chickie von Housewife (Bullock), she not only has to come to terms with what has happened to her life, but also finds herself reevaluating the very terms against which she used to judge success. Who needs Chicago when you’ve got Texas? Enter Mr. Strong Arms Cow-Poke (Harry Connick Jr.), a former classmate/current townie, whose twinkling blue eyes and “aw shucks” smile woos the once-proud Chickie. Well hell, women are much easier when they’ve been taken down a peg or two. Wait, no, that’s not the lesson, sorry. It’s not that she’s “settled,” no, she’s “reevaluated the important things in life.”
Not me. I have no desire to get cozy here, and love is for the birds, y’all. I may be living with my parents in Maine now, but you won’t find me making snow angels and sipping hot cocoa with Flevel McLobsterman any time soon. Did you see the cake in the last post? Cakes don’t lie.
NYC or bust.
