I’ve spent a ridiculous portion of my life watching and rewatching the same old films. You know the ones: everyone talks super-fast and they’re all clever and articulate and occasionally scathing, but they always have exactly the right words.

I am the way I am because I love those films. Usually that would be fine, but I’ve found a reason all that exposure may have been dangerous: I am always wishing my life could be more like some amalgam of His Girl Friday, It Happened One Night, My Man Godfrey, and The Philadelphia Story.

I want the big, banter-filled romance that overcomes all the obstacles. I want the tall, dark, handsome, intelligent leading man who will fight with me or for me and isn’t afraid to make sweeping romantic gestures and sincere declarations of love. I want the quirky, loud family with qualities one can’t help but find endearing. I want the friends who are the respite when the drama gets too intense; they can be comic relief or the voices of reason to balance my own craziness and keep me from going off the deep end.

I am lucky enough to have most of those things. The trouble comes when a piece is missing or broken. I notice. Suddenly, that is all I can think about and my brain begins running laps around the realization that my life is very uncomfortable without that piece and that I shouldn’t have to bury the desire for it.

You see, there are really only two types of leading women: the ones who take action, and the ones who wait for action to be taken. I am far more comfortable being the former but certain situations are better suited to the latter.

Life isn’t as black and white as the movies. The good guys don’t always win and true love doesn’t conquer all.

I hate that.

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