Nora Ephron, Why Did You Do This To Me?
BRO, where is my summer romance? It’s already September and I wanted to be wanted (by the *right* man) ALL SUMMER. Because if the planet is going to burn to the ground while my thighs stick like Velcro to my Jetta’s leather seats, I might as well have some hunk of hottie hotness in the passenger seat to bring this global warming to a whole new level. We’ll only take off our particulate respirators to make out, baby!
First of all, I need to call out someone real quick. Nora Ephron, what the hell did you do to me? You’re mad about your NECK?! I’m mad I bought into your idealized version of what love should look like and now I’m sitting alone in my bed ignoring texts from dudes who do not and will never fit the bill. Because truth be told, NOR-UH, the bill is rigged. The bill is unattainable. I still use it as the going rate, nonetheless. Is that my fault? Sure. But I’m human and I’ll blame everyone else before I blame myself.
I have fantasized about a summer romance since before I even dreamt of having a training bra. Based on my boobs now, you might think that’s currently, and you’d be right, but let me make the insults, okay? I digress. Summer romance has always been enticing. Every romcom teeny bopper movie promised that it would undoubtedly happen at least once and look, I’m in my LATE 20s and still waiting. Where is my hormone raging stubbled man who will lay out in the grass and look out at the stars with me? Where is the goofy, sexy, super tall and worth the climb “Jake” I was sure I’d have by now? Never mind my apartment building not having a single blade of grass within walking distance that isn’t brown OR the fact that Los Angeles has so much light pollution that anything that resembles a star is probably a light shining from the Scientology Center; I deserve a summer romance.
Yet again, summer has come and past (the innocent can never last…). Not once did I smush strawberry ice cream all over my manfriend’s face a la The Notebook style nor did I snuggle up to a hairy LuluLemon t-shirt covered chest as the sun set behind the screen playing “When Harry Met Sally” at a rooftop theater. And I feel cheated.
If we roll back the sundial to April, there was a great deal of hope within me. I was overwhelmingly enthralled with a big dumb-dumb man who was actually smart and kind and funny. AND NO, IT WASN’T MY DAD. He was pretty cool and I thought we had a good time together, so whatever, mature me is like, “that was a lesson and was fun while it lasted” and immature me (who KNOWS BETTER) is like, “fuck that guy”.
I don’t put myself out there often. I don’t like to. I feel like men are more used to rejection based on biology alone. They shoot their shot anywhere and everywhere and if they get rejected, it’s on to the next one. I’ve never had to do the heavy lifting. So, when my April manfriend kind of lowkey rejected me, I whimpered away with my tail between my legs. NEVER AGAIN, I SWEAR. Never. Again. You won’t even see me pull my arm back to take a shot. I called for a substitute and I’m out of the game.
Does that mean I should be ripped of my summer romance? No. Am I going to try to actually see this through? Absolutely not. Summer is over. Now the fall comes in with a different kind of promise: CUFFING SEASON. I’m avoiding those shackles at all costs. I can watch Hocus Pocus all by myself, thank you, and I’m not around for the finale of a dude capitalizing on Hot Girl Summer to come and drop the sand accumulated in his asshole during all the beach days spent with some OTHER GIRL on my floor.
The sun ain’t the only thing that burned me these past few months (oh my GOD — ZIIIING!). My heart is as dry as Alaska, ravaged by the neglect of human care. At this point, despite my hilarious rants and raves, I’m mostly apathetic. The thing about fantasies is that they aren’t real. And they’re perfect. No one is that. I’m not even that (just kidding. Yes, I am.) I will continue on with my fantasy of the summer romance. It will happen next year, for sure. Nora Ephron is still on my shit list.
