This Means War Paint

I like when, in movies, crazy attractive people can’t get dates, haven’t had boyfriends in years, and the last left without reason, picking someone dressed less showy (we’ll meet her later under embarrassing circumstances), with a diminutive job, a ring bigger than diamonds you’ve seen in real life, because TV’s the stuff of scaling up, and the only time someone on film had a small ____ was for comedy value. But real life’s not funny like that. People kill themselves for less.

I forget the lessons I learnt in school, lose another each year, will never think being’s enough, got taught that functioning well’s about labelling regret’s even when there weren’t any. Being happy’s not very healthy. It’s better to want to regress and the best you can hope for is a good man. No princes here, but that wouldn’t be righteous, would it?

I’m glad men can overcome quirks, accept Reese Witherspoon for the horrible workaholic, bad decision maker, over-dresser she is.


If You’re Going To Hell, I’ll Just Come Pick You Up

Jack says, “Shouldn’t we hedge bets? Pick a side? Pretend we know where we’re going when we don’t, and we’re less sure than we were in primary school?” But I wavered, had a penchant for stories that led to performances in front of parents, even though I was relegated each time a play was cast, was always an extra angel, a shepherd with a well tied head dress.

“Couldn’t you tell,” I ask him, “if I was half-hearted about this? Wouldn’t you know that every word was a construct or lie designed to keep your interest, all just part of an end game, not about you at all.”

“I don’t think I can tell now what you’re thinking,” he tells me, and I ask, “Really? You can’t tell now?” and Jack replies, “If you asked me how many fingers you were holding up as you held them in front of me I wouldn’t see, I couldn’t know. I’m trying so hard to read you sometimes I overlook the simple stuff. If I knew how you felt about god, gods, a god, I wouldn’t ask, but I don’t. I don’t know where you think we go when we’re gone.”

“Nowhere,” I tell him, “or anywhere. Kind of where we think we should be. At the moment, I’m stuck in the middle, trying to choose, deciding if it’s either/or or neither at all, because we’re fucked every way I see it.”

Engagement Ring Etiquette, or, Reese in That Film

Jack says, “You should wear it on your left hand, on your penultimate finger.”

“Are you sure?” I ask him. “Because there are girls at work who wear it on their right, who don’t wear one altogether.”

Jack Googles it, reads me lists, histories on it, from Wikipedia first, and then home-made sites by people as misinformed as I am. When we made the decision Jack promised we’d check out every tradition, so we’d know which ones were right, and which were antiquated, like only virgins wearing white or veils being equivalent to hymens.

Jack says, “There’s something in structure, apparently, in which fingers bend and don’t, and you wear your wedding ring there, on that finger, because it’s the hardest to move independently, so according to Sally, or whoever wrote the text on this site really, it means that you’re bound to your husband, subjugated to him.”

We have a week of rom-coms, wedding themed ones, or ones with weddings in them, trying to align ourselves with the ideas, with the idea of completing something old and not going backwards. But every woman wears her rings on the same finger in the Western hemisphere, in England, America. So now we’re looking for lists of European films, ones which can convince us it’s okay to choose other fingers, that it’s alright to break with tradition even at the expense of other people’s feelings or because of them.

But Reese’s finger in that film couldn’t hold a bigger rock better and she’s far from under somebody’s thumb, she’s far from trodden on. But I don’t know if that’s our answer.