Partly Cloudy, 64°
I love this man. He’s always been there for me, and while he may be a little bland, I know he’s a stable presence in my life. Throughout the last 64 minutes, we’ve grown comfortable with each other. We’ve danced, or I’ve danced while he’s bobbed around, with a perfectly directed pinch of awkward. I’ve met his parents, and, after the appropriate amount of cringeworthy exchanges, have been accepted into his family, and I just look so safe in the picture framed on his desk, with his arms around me.
But let’s be real for moment. There is a full half hour left in this movie. I think that’s probably just enough time for a series of increasingly unlikely events to reverse my entire decision making progress so that I end up with that guy I turned down earlier who now looks as though he may have a lot of heart hidden under that rough surface.
Not to be shallow, but this man I love just may not be the one. It’s not like I’m asking for someone else, especially not a handsome rogue with cool hair and a leather jacket and maybe a motorcycle to go along with it, to sweep me off my feet—I’m just saying it might be likely. After all, we’ve still got 30 minutes, and that’s like a whole sitcom with ads. Think about that.
I mean, look, there’s clearly enough time left for the guy with the hair and the daddy issues to learn how to feel again, and for us, with the aid of a montage set to ’80s music, a flurry of imaginative dates and a tearful apology monologue at my doorstep, to fall in love. Again, I’m not trying to force anything, just trying to observe the situation through an objective lens.
I’m young, I’m beautiful, and the music is swelling just enough that I think I want to dance: to be twirled around the floor in an obviously choreographed but effortless-looking way by the man with obviously styled but effortless-looking hair.
