of which I am THOROUGHLY enjoying…
I have seen Crazy, Stupid, Love—in theatre, two Saturdays in a row.
There really is something about watching either jilted, lost, or tragic romances. Unlike romance comedies, where they all END UP… in LOVE, there’s something so much more satisfying in watching a romance end, in front of you, on screen. Satisfying not because it was just a great story. Satisfying, because whoever it was that put whatever in the film you just saw gave you some sort of image/portrayal of love, you’re happy because somewhere in those two hours of motion picture magic, you almost felt like you saw two people in love. They may either fall out of it or die in the end, but you saw it happen. Maybe that’s why I think Crazy, Stupid, Love was so great. When you see the tragedy in the beginning, how it’s being worked through, and how the characters are dealing with the tragedy of losing love or realizing they never knew what it meant to love… even more so do they need to make sense of what love is.
And that’s what makes these such a great watch—in a world that craves love constantly.
You never would think that the backseat of your car could hold two and a half years of your life.
But it does.
And then you realize that she’s off—your best friend and your roommate. Someone you shared every waking moment with for days straight. The same person who used pennies and quarters as projectile objects when your cell phone alarm blasted obnoxious music to wake you up. The same person you fought with and cried with the night before. And you pack those three suitcases she never knew she had into that backseat.
Weren’t backseats meant for people? Weren’t they meant for you and two others to squish back there for a windy trip up Big Bear Mountain—your feet propped somewhere on a long board and your body lodged behind a scratchy guitar case? Weren’t backseats made to stuff inappropriate, and excessive amounts of people for a quick trip for frozen yogurt? And there you are, filling it with Sterilite boxes overflowing with sheets and plastic bags bursting with clothes. And you’re standing there thinking about all the times you wiggled your caboose, sang at the top of your lungs, and smiled at your neighboring drivers—all from a backseat.
But, it’s all an overwhelming image of your life flashing before your eyes. Whether its you whose belongings are out of that wonderful apartment you boasted to just about everyone for two years… or you’re the one who is watching a stranger—an hour and a half after your roommate left—unpacking her own backseat.
All that packing, and on the verge of tears at just the first trip down. We grab those graduation balloons and the heaviest bag of what you deemed trash. The white plastic tears as my nails scratch to hold on to that delicate material, and your English 101 flashcards from a year ago scatter everywhere on that road. So I run to throw the rest that I’ve managed to hold on to, into the trash bins. Then I’m up the stairs for a shiny, new plastic bag.
And we’re laughing because it’s ridiculous that you are standing there, trying to pick up old jeans and tiny papers, beside three balloons—one of them half-deflated. And we’re laughing, because for a moment, we don’t have to think of that backseat.
And we’re laughing because we can just be roommates—all those insignificant and petty differences aside—sitting in the front seats with the windows rolled down, and some ridiculous Taylor Swift, teeny-bopper song blasting on the stereo.