S has frequently commented on how my life would make an excellent chick flick. this isn't something i particularly relish hearing. perhaps because i assume the chick flick of my life in his mind would be something in the vain of a catherine zeta-jones rom-com with lots of soft background jazz when i'd prefer to think of my life as being along the lines of that beloved abc family charisma carpenter classic see jane date. with set design via gone with the wind, the thematic innocence of meet me in st.louis and a smidgen of refined longing à la camilla & charles: whatever love means.
my life, it is entirely more complex than a chick flick. it is a fancy dress musical of midwestern innocence and thwarted royal love.
i've fought the chick flick characterization for a long, long time. i'll share an anecdote and S will say, see, your life is a chick flick, and i'll protest in my snippiest camilla & charles: whatever love means tone, NO, NO, it is NOT.
but the other day, when i opened a champagne bottle with a real cork for the first time [because a) i always buy andre with the screw-cap and b) boys have always been around to open the real thing] and the cork flew straight up from the bottle, ricocheting off the ceiling to fall like a shooting star and settle atop the frosting of the celebratory sugar bliss gingerbread cupcake that was sitting on the counter, as though that was where the cork had been meant to be all along, i couldn't help but wonder if perhaps my life is a little less complex than i had imagined. and my stunt crew more sophisticated than i ever knew.