My life. Oh boy, my life.
Every time I think it's starting to mellow-- thinking that I am a rational adult with rational things happening to me -- I behave irrationally and incredibly irrational things happen to me.
My life is, in fact, A ROMANTIC COMEDY!
The best part is that this isn't a 'me-centric' thing. Oh no. Because if my life is a romantic comedy, than we are all the players.
Sure, in my particular romantic comedy I guess I would have to be the protagonist (or one of them, because I'm not always driving the action), and yes, it means that many of the people I know are either the villains, the sidekicks, the parents, or the love interests.
However, before this gets too 'me' centered, think about it: you're the protagonist in the movie of YOUR life, you just need to decide what your genre is. Do you find that your life teeters on drama? Is everyday like North Country? [Note: maybe you don't live in a mining town, maybe you just look like Charlize Theron. Not a bad thing. Nice.] Do you participate in a lot of gun fights and wear 10 gallon hats? Do you enjoy building robots and dream of one day hopping aboard one of Branson's space flights? Do you have a lot of mob connections and constantly muse about 'offing' people? I think you know where I'm going with this. . . if not, I'm very bad with object lessons.
I could continue! I haven't even hit screwball comedies or biopics --
--But I won't! I will continue on with this scrambled blog entry.
Basically I had a discussion with someone last night, and I came to the conclusion (and this person concurred) that my life is a severe romantic comedy. In fact, it might even be a Classical Hollywood Narrative Romantic comedy. If I could just channel a little of the sophistication of Katherine Hepburn, I think I could even call it The Philadelphia Story. But maybe Bringing Up Baby is a more appropriate comparison....for now. Who knows? I guess we'll see when my ex-husband returns upon seeing that I am remarrying. But, whatever, my ex-husband has been gone for so long, I highly doubt that my getting remarried would put a dent in him.
I kid, I kid.
Anyway, it's Valentines Day this weekend, which I always lovingly refer to as The St. Valentines Day Massacre. Yes, I've always been a bitter, pessimistic, wallower about Valentines day, but this year I have something to smile about. Something to be happy about. Something (and someones) to celebrate with. And better yet, we don't NEED to celebrate V-Day at all. We can celebrate anything, because I find I'm big on celebrations! I love a frilly dress, wavy locks, a dash of perfume and flavored lip balm. In fact, celebrations are fun for me because, well, I have a dirty little secret:
I enjoy being a girl.
It's true. I can't deny it. I enjoy lacey, frilly, purple, (occasionally) floral things. I enjoy candlelit dinners, hushed conversation, holding hands across tables, having senseless arguments about who looks better. The whole shebang. Then why haven't I been a fan of Valentines day, you ask?
Because I like doing valentines day things like twice a week. No holiday's going to tell ME when to be a spoiled, rotten girl. NO ONE!
Wow. This was a weird blog entry.
Happy St. Valentines Day Massacre--day.