Turns Out, I Want To Live In a Nora Ephron Movie

and my inner feminist was like, WTF?

I’m a romantic at heart.

You have to dig around quite a bit to find it mind you. Layers of sarcasm (my favoured form of humour), a (what I would consider) healthy dose of cynicism and enough life experience to call me a realist are abundant. But beneath all that there’s a kernel of romanticism like a little sparkly jewel just waiting to be set free.

That sparkly little jewel just loves a Rom Com so when I saw that my local cinema was doing a special showing of “When Harry Met Sally” I immediately booked myself a ticket.

Armed with a flask of tea under my arm and some Aldi chocolate (chocolate raisins) stashed in my bag, I arrive early and settle in for the trailers. 

I love the movies. I don’t love movies. I love the movies.

Put a film on at home and I’ll fall asleep. But take me to a movie theatre, especially one as old and beautiful and steeped in history as my local cinema, and I will watch pretty much anything. 

But a Nora Ephron movie isn’t “pretty much anything”. 

A Nora Ephron movie is like a thwack to the heart strings; a thimble of perfection in a canon full of missteps. I love all of her movies. I’m also (may I remind you) layered in sarcasm, cynicism and enough life experience to make me a realist. So I was not expecting what happened.

The lights dim and the movie starts.

I pour my tea and open my bag of chocolate raisins, savouring each one as I smugly congratulate myself on how successfully I, a 43 year old single woman, field the outdated trope that happiness is found in marriage or that my worth is defined by my relationship status. A trope that this 1989 film firmly upholds.

I am single. I am wildly independent. I have a truly lovely life of my own making. And I am at the cinema by myself watching one of the best love stories ever made.

Life is good my friend. Life is good.

And then I notice that my face is wet. I raise my hand to my cheeks and track the moisture to my eyes. I’m crying. Silently. In the dark. 

I’m not crying because the movie is sad or because my hair isn’t as big and fabulous as Meg Ryan’s (although that would be cause to weep). I’m not crying because I’m single or because I’ve never been married.

In all honesty, I’m not really sure why I’m crying. 

Maybe it’s hormones? Maybe one of Saturn’s rings is doing something to one of Jupiter's moons?

I shove a handful of chocolate raisins in my mouth like a bribe to a child. Please, just let me enjoy the movie. After all, how often do you get to see “When Harry Met Sally” on the big screen?

The movie ends. People clap (cute). I gather my things and walk home.

I don’t ponder on the tears. Maybe my eyes just needed a shower.

The following day I am tapping away at my laptop because writing helps me make sense of the world. The dog lies in his bed next to my desk, outstretched and lightly snoring. 

I flick through my Google Docs looking for a draft I started a while ago when I stumble on a spoken poem I wrote long before I even knew that “When Harry Met Sally” was playing at the cinema.

The poem is called “I Want To Live In a Nora Ephron Movie”.

I wrote and recorded this poem and then didn’t publish it. At the time it felt performative, like I didn’t really connect with the sentiment of it. So it sat in the dusty old file on my laptop that isn’t but should be called “I don’t know what to do with this”. I literally forgot about it. Until today. Today it all makes sense. 

As I read through it I realise that this poem is why I cried in the cinema. This poem should’ve been written once I got home, full of chocolate raisins and ready to put words to my experience but in some weird Matrix glitch, it came through me ahead of time. A piece written from premonition instead of reflection. Really Matrix, sort your timelines out!

Now, here, today I realise how powerful the little sparkly jewel inside me really is. No matter how deeply it’s buried beneath my sarcasm, cynicism and enough life experience to make me a realist, it’s power is penetrative and mighty. 

I want a great love story.

And it’s taken me a long time to realise that has nothing to do with being single.

I don’t believe I am less than because I’m single. I don’t buy into the idea that I haven’t been picked. I don’t feel left out or ostracised by my friends because I’m the only one without a plus one. I love how independent I am and how free my life is. Being single doesn’t bother me at all.

But what I’m beginning to understand is that my little sparkly jewel desires a big love story. And I’m scared (yes, scared) that I’ll never get to have one. 

I have of course been in loving relationships before where the words “I love you” were said and meant. But what I want is different to that.

I want a stars-colliding, it-all-makes-sense-now, of-course-it-was-always-you, didn’t-believe-in-soul-mates-until-now, it's-a-Nora-Ephron-movie kind of love.

And I wonder if that desire is why I’m single.

I don’t want to accept anything less.

I don’t need to accept anything less.

Nothing has changed. But something has shifted so I publish the poem on YouTube.

The dog wakes up from his nap.

He trails behind me as I walk into the kitchen in search of what’s left of yesterday's chocolate raisins.