It is my belief that a woman should be left to watch chick flicks in private. Define chick flick? Any movie that I would love to be in; part of; or daydream about is categorised as a chick flick in my head.
Think: Legally Blonde; Sex And The City; Bridget Jones' Diary; The Notebook; or just about ANYTHING with Ryan Gosling in it. See where I'm going with this?
Nothing dampens the spirit and essential essence of a chick flick more than having a man provide a running commentary on your chosen movie, always pointing out how ridiculous the storyline is. Worse still is when a man feels the need to explain why it is such a terrible movie by listing specific examples of actions taken by the paperweight characters or the agonisingly predictable dialogue.
Note to men the world over: WE ALREADY KNOW!
Please give us some credit. Yes, we know the frumpy and slightly awkward drunk woman will win the heart of her handsome, intelligent man in the end. Yes, we understand the likelihood of a ditzy bouncing blonde with an unhealthy obsession to the colour pink speaking in front of US Congress to let her gay dog get marrried is a little far-fetched, and even that a woman would be hardpressed to choose between Ryan Gosling and, oops...sorry, I mean 'Noah' and 'Lan' is ridiculous, but here's another tip: WE DON'T CARE!
Seriously, I know it's all crap but I love nothing more than escaping to another room and watching a chick flick in private in order to immerse myself in the romanticism and adventure unfolding before me. After looking after a 17 month old toddler all day, I think the least I deserve is 90 minutes of fabulous hollywood dross. Wouldn't you agree?
Let's be honest, even if you're lucky enough to have a man who sits through chick flicks with you in...gasp!...silence, more often than not his silence is so loud! The heavy breathing (and not in a good way), the long sighs of bewilderment, and always moving on the couch to get comfortable is very off-putting. While he's there you can't sniff, wipe away tears or really get caught-up in the moment as much as you'd like to because you are constantly reminded of his presence.
Well, I say poop to that. Gimme a block of chocolate, a glass of red wine, a big blanket and a box of tissues to enjoy my cinematic feast of fluff and I'll be the happiest woman alive. Honestly, Teach would be happy with that arrangement too - as long as he was at the pub watching soccer.
Luckily Teach and I came to an understanding very early on in our relationship (funnily enough without an actual conversation ever taking place about this subject) that I would not ask him to watch a chick flick with me, if he never asks me to watch a football game with him. Deal!
After several years and a thousand movies later, I am very pleased to say that our agreement is still in perfect working order with no review in sight. Perhaps that's why we work? He understands my need for trash and I understand his need to trash talk to the TV, in private, without fear of being judged or harassed for crying during the closing credits. And that's just Teach! Don't get me started on what I do at the end of a sob-fest movie!
Image: The Notebook from here
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