My Life is Not a Rom-Com

I’m on what could very well be a most grand adventure, or it could be as disappointing as the Reality panel of (500) Days of Summer’s iconic Expectations vs. Reality sequence – although my Expectations panel would be more properly labeled as Fantasy because I gave up on expecting anything great to happen a long time ago.

I’m living on my own for the first time, which means paying for every overpriced (but descrumptious) sandwich from the museum/coffee shop in town, as well as every grocery that I really have no idea whether or not it’s overpriced because I don’t buy bananas and tofu and chicken breasts for myself at home.  Due to my fortune of being blessed with the luck and demeanour of an offbeat-but-endearing heroine in a growing-up chick flick (although my story is obviously not a rom-com because, um, hello, Exhibit A: my life), I accidentally left my two most important pieces of luggage at home: my Activities box (books, DVDs, The Sims – although I do have my laptop and GameBoy.  That was Exhibit B, folks), and my toiletries.  Yeah, so I didn’t have shampoo or toothpaste or deodorant for the first day and a half.  Which, let me tell you, was real real nice after a sweaty nine-hour drive in my car.  My car that, as my new employer informed me the next morning, was out of oil.  (I also didn’t shower the day before but don’t worry about it.  And there we have Exhibit C.  Check and mate, myself!)

I will conclude with Exhibit D of the My Life is Not a Rom-Com Case by pointing out that I will be rescued from this Hygienic Drought not by running into some uncharacteristically hot hippie man at the supermarket while I juggle to hide my mundane, yet culturally taboo, toilette items (seriously, if a dude cannot handle the fact that you need a razor to shave your armpits, THAT’S A DEALBREAKER, LADIES), but rather, by my parents coming to visit me for my twenty first birthday weekend.  Not that I’m not thankful or stoked that they’re coming to see me; I am one hundred and five percent.  But, let’s face it, being saved by way of your parents lugging up crucial supplies and facepalming at how you’re going to handle living three months on your own is far less romantic and hilariously awkward than falling in love over an embarrassing encounter at the supermarket with a ruggedly hot dude.

I just couldn’t cut it in a rom-com; I’m still waiting on that aforementioned endearing quality to show itself as I awkwardly fake laugh through conversations with my rentees and spill strawberry smoothie down my shirt at work.


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