In the movies, the man would gently remove my glasses in by our third date and I would never need them again.

In reality, I’m blind as a bat without them and contact lenses irritate my eyes to the point of self-inflicted conjunctivitis. I look and feel like a junkie coming down from a major high.

In the movies, the man would let my hair down in the middle of a romantic dance, and I would never pin it up again, not even at our wedding.

In reality, I keep my hair up because otherwise it gets in the way and frizzes everywhere. If it were up to me I would shave avery follicle off, but my dress code at work is from the 1950s and women need to have shoulder-length hair.

In the movies, I’d be dressed all frumpy until the man somehow provided me with a designer dress that there’s no way he could afford in his career as part-time photographer and part-time slacker.

In reality, I think that frump is a synonym for comfortable. I don’t care how I look as long as I’m comfortable, especially since work requires me to strictly avoid comfortable clothes because 1950s.

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