I saw that new Nicholas Sparks movie last night after drooling over the trailer for about a month. If you’re unaware of it, it’s called, “The Lucky One,” and it features a beefy Zac Efron as the world’s most perfect man. (I, too, wonder where all his muscles came from.)
While watching the movie, I kept thinking, “Where on earth can I find me one of these guys?” The character of Logan is a marine, a perfect gentleman, a well-trained dog owner and the most romantic guy on the planet. At one point, he tells the girl she should be kissed “every hour of every day.” WHAT. Guys don’t just say that in real life! I then imagined myself in every sex scene for the rest of the movie.
This type of thing is nothing new to Mr. Sparks. Every book (and movie) depicts the ideal guy saving a girl from a life of cancer or hardship and subsequently building her something she’s always wanted, i.e. a house or a telescope. The only thing a guy has ever built me is a bloody mary (with extra beef sticks!) or a duct-tape purse. So what’s up with this shit, Nicholas? Because right now, you’re just making me hate myself.
In the theater with me were about a hundred teenage girls, and I couldn’t help but think, “He’s too old for you” but also “This is good for you; you will have an image of the perfect relationship and potentially leave an abusive one when you’re older.” However, for my friend and I, it was, “Why don’t our boyfriends play piano and fix our boats and say only positive things about our appearance?” After a steamy shower-to-bed scene, I wanted to stand up and shout, “It’s not really like this! When you’re done having sex, it’s really gross and one or the both of you will need to use the bathroom!” These teenage girls had no idea what they were in for and my heart was breaking for their innocence.
After I got home and felt too depressed to do anything, I sat in bed wondering what it was that makes Nicholas Sparks movies so ridiculous and unsettling beyond the similar plot lines and hunky actors. (I still haven’t seen the ones with old people…because who wants to see that?) I figured it out: we’re all secretly in love with Nicholas Sparks.
These fictional dreamboats don’t exist in real life, but a living, breathing man imagined them. After I Google searched his photo, I made some conclusions about Nicholas Sparks.
1. He didn’t have any girlfriends growing up.
2. He had loads of free time to imagine himself in obscure situations and rehearsed the perfect things to say.
(Even if these conclusions are false, his face says otherwise.)
I then began to list all of the things the storyline didn’t highlight. If I cut out all the awkward, mundane parts of my relationship and only included snapshots of the times a guy has said something sweet to me, I’d be in a Nicholas Sparks book, too. However, at some point, we all have to go number 2 or tweeze our eyebrows (and there’s nothing romantic about that). From now on, I’m going to ignore everything ordinary and try to create dramatic side plots that end with me getting my watch fixed by a guy in boxer briefs.