I have come to the conclusion that chick flicks and alcohol do NOT mix. On the otherhand, maybe I’m wrong. I don’t know. I don’t know precisely how much I’ve had… I tend to not count anymore. I was going to lay down and go to sleep and put it on a movie OnDemand, “Letters to Juliet”. I’m not a huge Amanda Siegfried fan or anything. Don’t see that changing anywhere in the near future. However, for some reason I was compelled into the position of the heroine of the movie. What If? What if life had played out differently? What if sometime in the future I found myself confronted with a past “love”? How might I handle that situation? And the only answer that came to me is “What if something separated Albert and I, and we lost touch until we were in our 60′s?” First off, I’m fairly sure my heart could not take it. Second off, if I did find him again after all that time had passed, neither of us would be the people we are now. And third of all, would he even still feel as he does now?
In this movie, the guy “Lorenzo” looks as a child on Christmas day when he realizes his Claire has returned, and they have a second chance. Subplot shows the main character, Sophie and Charlie, with a blossoming romance that cannot be fully realized until Sophie lets go of her fiance, Victor. Ok, that’s all fine and great, and I know beforehand that true love will win out, yet and still I sit here crying like a bitch when she leaves Charlie behind to return to Victor and her home in NY. Later she leaves Victor, goes to the wedding of Lorenzo and Claire, and again I’m crying. Why? Because it appears that Charlie has returned to his ex-girlfriend Patricia. She runs off from the reception and Charlie chases her. And again I start crying. Why? Because he loves her and she loves him, and the “Patricia” at the wedding is actually his cousin. They didn’t seem very cousin-like, but ok whatever who cares, they can be together and happy and YAY happy endings for everyone. This is why I hate chick flicks. But on the upside, at least I’m not imagining myself with someone else, it always makes me happy and appreciative of the love I have in my own life. Albert isn’t climbing balconies to get to me, he’s not showering me with jewels or flowers (though he does get little doo-dads for me now and then, or a bouquet). He’s not Romeo, he’s not riding in on a white horse in shiny tinfoil to rescue the proverbial princess, but the love we share is real. Its survived storm after storm, day in and day out, moodswing after moodswing, familial obligations and interferences galore. His hands and his body show the result of his love for me and for his family, and those things? Mean more to me than any shiny bauble he could buy.
