A friend insisted I see He’s Just Not That Into You, thinking it would change my long-held belief that chick flicks blow. I’m just not into their Disney-ified take on life. The women are shallow ninnies who buy shoes and sing pop songs into hairbrushes when they’re sad. The men are clueless hunks who miraculously get their crap together then deliver goofy speeches about the transformative effects of love. Marriage is presented as the only worthwhile aim of human existence, while love itself is depicted as a series of zany mishaps that must be stumbled out of in order to be attained.
He’s Just Not wants to get real. Indeed, the flick reveals some real moments from single women’s lives – staring at the phone, looking for “signs” the guy likes you. I’ve done these things. All my girlfriends have done them. I’m sure even Angelina Jolie did these things before she had Pitt sweatin’ her.
But I want to go deeper.
Years ago, after being discourteously dumped, I had one of those old-fashioned Victorian heartbreaks. I spent several days in bed sobbing, begging God for mercy and having hallucinatory visions of unzipping myself from my own skin in order to be rid of a savage case of self-doubt. All I could think was, “if he could see how much I’m suffering. Things might have turned out the same, but he probably would’ve been nicer about it.”