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::Cinema Verite::


The saddest thing in life, is realizing that you're 31 years old everything you own can fit inside a Ford Focus.
Scratch that. The saddest thing in life, is being 31 and driving a Ford Focus.
Wait. The real saddest thing in life, is being 31.

That's better.

If I was someone famous, some disgruntled paparazzi in a dirty cargo jacket and a thick Russian accent (in Old Country I was neurosurgeon) would have been outside waiting for a money shot.
And he would see me, all teary eyed and disheveled, gathering up my clothes and tossing them in my Ford Focus. My face a contorted expression of shock, hurt, drunkenness, and anger. Mostly anger.

He would get a shot of me lighting a cigarette, while I'm on the phone with my best friend, my throat angrily shooting out incoherent sounds in between sobs. Imagine if ET was shot, and desperately trying to call 911...it was a sound similar to that.

He would get shot of HIM. HIM who kept coming out with handfuls of more things. As if everything I ever touched was now contaminated. Level 3 bio-hazard containment specimens. Nuclear warfare. Ebola viruses. I was a cancerous, infectious diseased germ. I was his girlfriend 20 minutes earlier.

Him, closing the door shut each time he went back in because I wasn't allowed to even get my own things. I wasn't allowed in THE apartment. Which had been OURS just 20 minutes earlier. I'm sure that would have been a great shot. Full of fury and angry.

The paparazzi would have caught those key images. Tomorrow's TMZ headline "Christina OUT. Piles of clothes stuffed into car. Scream fest!!! Its OVER! Details inside." Harvey Levin with his huge mug, pausing the images to make a snarky comment about my shoes, or a hole in my pants or whatever.

In the movie of my life, this would be an ending. Cameron Crowe, being my preferred director, would have played a slow, sultry, desperately sad and bitter rock anthem. So I played Castles Made of Sand.
Some really cute indie actress (Rosario Dawson as my first choice) would be playing me.
Driving to my mothers house, Hendrix blasting, unable to say pretty much anything than "fuck." Or a variation. (what the fuck, who the fuck, why the fuck etc etc)

In the movie it would all be terribly dramatic and beautiful. Oscar contender.

But this is my real life. This is not a movie. This is not a tabloid article. This is Thursday, January 10th, 2013. Happy New Year.

I'm sitting at work now, pretending everything is fine because, your boss doesn't give a shit about your personal life.
I have to pretend to be a happy normal mom tonight, because your kids don't give a fuck about your personal life.
I have to pretend to be a happy human being in general, because people don't give a fuck.

In one night, my whole world just flipped upside down. The man I was going to marry. The man I love.
Everyone fights, but you never think THIS will be the LAST fight ever. You always just assume you'll make up. Someone will apologize. Someone will stop the fight. Someone will start making some sense.
Because that's what you see in the movies. You see love work out under the most trying circumstance. You see love blossom under impossible odds.
But, as I previously mentioned, this is not a movie.

Comments

  1. TamJanuary 14, 2013 at 11:13 AM

    *hugs* I wish I had some words to offer that could make you feel better but I know all too well that those platitudes don't mean shit in these situations. This was beautifully written.

    ReplyDelete

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