Mush and Gush

So yesterday was stupid Valentine’s Day. And I stayed up entirely too late watching ridiculous chick flicks. And on one of those channels, they had a little tag up in the bottom right corner of the screen that just stayed there the whole time the movies were on. It said “Love out loud.”

Every time I looked at it, I alternately wanted to cry and scream. Also, I was reminded how all the romcom movies from the mid-90’s all seemed to quote the same statistic – “women are more likely to be struck by lightening than to find a husband after the age of 35.” Seriously, it was in like 3 out of the obscene number of silly movies I watched.

But they proved it wrong of course. Because all of those leading ladies got their man. In the most romantic, cheesy way possible. One way or the other. Which brings me back to the screaming and the crying.

Crying because, well, I’m a sap I suppose. Screaming because I’ve tried for most of my life to be a hard cynic, mysterious and impossible to figure out. And I usually manage to succeed at all the wrong times. But the rest of the time, my heart is just swinging in the breeze, clipped to my sleeve, for all to gawk at. And man does that make me crazy most of the time. Both literally and figuratively.

Literally because I wind up sitting up way too late crying about Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan. Figuratively because well, I don’t particularly enjoy being a sap. I am not particularly fond of waiting for the love of my life to come back to me. And holy Nora Ephron Batman am I tired of writing and thinking about all of this gushy crap during one of the least romantic times of my life.

I mean, if I’m going to be all wistful and woebegone, I’d much rather be doing it in the Whedon-verse. Where things don’t make sense on purpose and they do it with style. Everyone has and knows their roles. And they deliver their lines with razor sharp wit and perfect comedic timing. Hell yes. I’ll take that.