The movies make it look so romantic when girls cry. They don’t tell you that it’s, in actuality, not romantic at all; they don’t tell you that you’ll have mascara running down your face and the guy you’re crying to will likely give you some cliche sentence like, “Don’t worry,” or “It’s ok,” or if they’re feeling ultra-original…a nice pat on the pack and, “Don’t cry.” The love stories fail to tell you that you’ll cry more often than once in your whole happily ever after, they always make it look like things turn out for the best, and they never end with the one you’re crying to, or about, falling asleep before you’re done expressing your woes. But real life, as I am slowly learning, is not a Dr. Seuss book, where you end up loving the Green Eggs and Ham, even though you previously wouldn’t eat them on a bus, on a boat, on a train, or in the rain. Real life is not as cushiony as your childhood imagination. It’s brutal, and harsh, and has been putting a smile on my face less and less with the burgeoning realization of it’s existence. In real life there are bills to pay, you have to wake up and clock in for duty every day, and you don’t automatically improve yourself on a regular basis –you have to work at it.
I used to hope and wish, and truly believe that life would get continuously better, that my over-zealous exuberance at age 16 would develop into radiant adulthood enthusiasm. I thought by this time I would’ve developed enough good karma to be super set, on track. I had mental pictures of where I would be in life. But I’m slowly realizing that I’m more and more hideously behind in life, and incredibly yawn-provokingly normal with each passing day. A typical, run-of-the-mill, unoriginal American brunette. It’s no wonder that people are always saying I look familiar, or remind them of so-and-so. I’m a brown-eyed middle of the road chick.
I used to always want to be normal, want to fit in and fly under the radar. Now, as it’s slowly setting in that that is exactly what is happening, I’m deeply saddened by it. My desire to be extraordinary, to blaze my own trail, to be a prodigious, independent female is slowly being extinguished. I now am signing up for things normal people sign up for, I went to a DOCTOR for goodness’ sake, I am talking like a normal person, I’m even believing normal people things. I’ve watched an entire season of a television show on Netflix, I’ve implemented a “cheat day” on my hippy dippy cleanse, and I’ve become this horridly stereotypical emotional girl with feelings of glass and a brain of smush.
My British friend, Chris, was the first to point out this phenomena and as I drove into Starbucks to juice up my cheat day, I realized he was completely right. I am as normal as they come. As boring as the very first Plain Jane. It’s basically been downhill from there, feeling as though I’ve sold my soul to the mass population. My hopes and dreams were unique, until I realized they are not like in the movies and they likely won’t come true. That’s when I set them on the shelf and decided I would not dust them off for a great long time. No one cares to read that anyway, people want novel, they want something they can sink their teeth into. And this girl, with her passionless, ever diminishing zest is slowly becoming less and less of that healthy, fulfilling sandwich, and more of a sloppy, soggy piece of bread which one pushes aside in disgust and focuses on the main course instead.
Disney lied to me. Fairy tales are Bologna. How’s that for a magic carpet ride?