Happily ever after…

Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit.

For once, I do not blame myself for my failing love life. I don’t even blame the men I have been involved with; Mr X, Y and Z. No. I blame you Jane Austen. I blame you Bridget Jones. I blame you Cinderella.

It’s occurred to me that I will never and I mean never be satisfied with my love life until it is one that rivals that of a rom-com. I want to be swept off my feet by my knight in shining armour, I don’t even mind kissing all the necessary frogs or sleeping with all the Daniel Cleavers that I need to, first. I just want that happy ending. That walk off into the sunset holding hands feeling. That long awaited, passionate kiss that says more than words ever could. That declaration of love from the man that you have always loved but never been able to tell.

That is what I want.

Is it too much to ask?!!? Well, quite frankly, yes.

But they never tell you this. If I drink a few glasses of wine in the hope of getting deliriously drunk, then I can- but all the ads and bottles tell me to “drink responsibly.” I know that I can get wasted but that the inevitable hangover will be my punishment. C’est la vie. If I want to indulge in a feast of chocolate and ice cream fit for a king, then I am able to. But the packaging will always tell me the calories and magazines/TV shows/my darling mother will always warn me that the weight gain is a hugely undesirable result. C’est la vie.  Where then is the warning? The warning as you sit down to watch Bridget Jones’ Diary; relating to her all the way through (except for a few minor glitches- 9st and needing to lose weight? GIVE ME A BREAK.  Jacking her job in, attending a few interviews and then becoming a TV presenter? PLEAAAASE) These aside, her pitiful love life reflects mine, as she vows to no longer date;

“alcoholics, workaholics, sexaholics, commitment-phobics, peeping toms, megalomaniacs, emotional fuckwits, or perverts.”


I may not have a love life like Bridget’s but I do have an underwear drawer full of “Bridget Jones knickers” to rival hers…

PERFECT. But then she meets Mark Darcy and by the end I’m no longer on her wavelength and am now just bloody furious that I never saw this coming. I started watching the film alone in a moment of depression, made friends with Bridget along the way and have now finished the film alone in an even greater depression than when I started. Plus, I am now approximately an hour and a half closer to death. NOBODY, pre-warned me about this. 

Parents let children watch beautiful Disney films with princesses who are saved by gorgeous princes who then marry them and spend their lives happily ever after together. This ill prepares little girls. They become like me, shocked to discover that men only save women from boredom on online dating sites now. That the gorgeous man that the lady think she is going to meet is actually about 4 stone heavier, has a slightly more receded hairline, extensive pubic hair that comes as a shock altogether and- despite being in his late 30s (incidentally 5 years older than he claimed)- has yet to acquaint himself with some deodorant. Films also seldom portray how seven years into marriage the sex life has rapidly declined, the husband has somehow managed to gain a few more pounds and looks even uglier than before and in spite of all this, even manages to have an affair. AH c’est la vie. C’est merde!


We are left to discover for ourselves the difference between fiction and reality.  To have our egos bruised a few thousand times and our hearts shattered and chipped away at.

But, do you want to know the really shit part? The love of your life only reveals itself at the end of the novel, play or film. Only at the very end when all hope is lost- is true love found. Obstacles have to be faced. Challenges have to be overcome.

This isn’t just a nice closure to the book/play/film- oh no– it is a bloody deceptive life trick that then stops the likes of me and you giving up on life. It prevents cynicism from wholly taking control of our lives. It is this that makes you go on that date with the guy that you KNOW isn’t Mr right but are convinced into giving a shot anyway, just in case. It is this that makes us fall in love time and time again…just in case we’ve found “the one”. It’s a never ending prank that authors and film directors and seemingly the rest of the world is playing on us idealistic, hopeful folk.

There is no such thing as the “happily ever after.” There, I said it. “Quite happily ever after” maybe. “Happily…for a limited period of time..after,” again, maybe. But not “happily ever after.” I know it won’t happen- not for me, not for you. But here I am…waiting nonetheless, just on the off chance. Because, afterall, it can only ever all work out at the very very end.

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